


Dancing In The Dark

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Challenge Response, Curufin Has His Reasons, F/M, First Age, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Mithrim, Nargothrond, Taboo Challenge, please pay attention to the chapter warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: History remembers Curufin as the villain. There are a few who think better of him.Written for the Silmarillion Writers' Guild Taboo challenge.





	1. Mithrim

Curufinwë hated these visits.

He accepted the necessity, of course – he was no fool, and knew that if he and his brothers were to have any chance of ever fulfilling the Oath he rued more with each passing day, they would need more than just themselves and their own forces for the assault on Morgoth.

To maintain their ties with the rest of the Noldor, those who had followed their half-uncle and their cousins, they must keep in contact. And the only way to keep in contact was to send messengers, for even if Nolofinwë were not against using the work of his half-brother’s hand unless absolutely necessary, not a single palantir had the High King of the Noldor in all his brilliance thought to bring with him across Alatairë.

The son most like Fëanaro has never quite been able to decide whether it was overconfidence or folly on his father’s part to leave such a vital tool behind in the Blessed Lands, where communication had never been a problem. The worst that might befall a traveler on the road from Tirion to Valimar was a lamed horse or a twisted ankle.

Here in Endorë, death was a possibility at any time. Palantiri would have made the distance between the lords of the Noldor less dangerous, and perhaps gone some way to healing the fracture lines between them. Even now, it does not take much to set them fighting amongst themselves. A single careless word can do it, and has on several occasions.

Curufinwë took his turn without complaint every few years, when it fell to him to serve as Nelyo’s messenger to their half-uncle, little though he liked Mithrim or Nolofinwë. These visits had been less of trial before Turukano had vanished with his people and Findarato had gone off to his hidden caves- not to mention before Tyelko had pitched such a fit about not knowing where Irissë was that Nelyo had banned him from returning to their uncle’s halls.

Now instead of every five years, the duty falls to Curufinwë every third year- for not only Tyelko, but also Nelyo will no longer go to Mithrim. (Ambarussa, of course, has never been sent. Since Losgar, he has always been kept within sight or sound of one of his older brothers. Curufinwë’s suggestion that it might actually help Ambarussa to be near Irissë – before she had vanished with Turno, obviously – had fallen on deaf ears.)

He had survived his initial audience with his half-uncle unscathed, and was idly wandering the halls, wondering if he’d be permitted to visit the pitiful shed that passed for the royal library here – a scant two rooms, barely full, a travesty compared to the massive collection his grandfather had commissioned an entire multi-wing building for in Tirion – when the commotion made him prick up his ears and return to the main hall.

Artanis and two of her brothers had just arrived, and unexpectedly it seemed.

Curufinwë wondered if he were the only one who noticed the gleam of gold on her finger, or merely the only one who had not heard that his youngest cousin had married. He and Tyelko might hold lands closer to Doriath than their brothers, but they got precious little news from the Fenced Land.

It was not Artanis, but rather Aikanaro and Angarato’s words that had drawn the attention of all.

Someone – and given who it was that had been expelled from Doriath, it required no genius to guess who – had finally let slip the tale of Alqualondë, and the Grey King had responded in predictably high-handed fashion.

The courtiers were muttering amongst themselves as they heard the tale of the banishment of the Arafinwions. Curufinwë could hear that reactions ranged from dismay to rage.

Both Nolofinwë and his remaining son kept their faces neutral and held their tongues as the court was dismissed. Then the King – Curufinwë refused out of loyalty to his eldest brother to call him High King in the privacy of his own thoughts– motioned for his family to join him in his private hall, where they could speak freely.

The group that gathered was smaller than it had ever been in his lifetime – besides Nolofinwë and Findekano, Curufinwë, Irimë and Laurefindil were the only non-Arafinwions. Aikanaro and Angarato looked grim, Artanis unusually pale. Artaresto had excused himself from the gathering, murmuring that he did not wish to leave his Sindarin wife alone in unfamiliar surroundings.

Curufinwë imagined it was more ‘did not wish to leave a lady of the Sindar alone surrounded by angry Noldor who have just been told that her holier than thou uncle has barred the speaking of the Noldorin tongue’.

The door had scarce shut securely behind them before the true feelings of the House of Finwë came bubbling over.

“Banned! How can he presume to ban _our_ language?” an outraged Findekano demanded of his father.

“Simply, cousin,” Curufinwë drawled. “By saying it is so. After all, Elwë holds himself lord of all Beleriand. Surely he has only to give a command and we will all trip over ourselves to obey.”

“Peace, Atarinkë!” his uncle snapped.

Curufinwë preferred his father name, but from his father’s half-siblings, he answered without complaint to the name his mother had bestowed on him, understanding that it was strange for them to use Fëanaro’s father name for him. Especially since Losgar, family relations ran smoother if his aunt and uncle spoke to Atarinkë rather than Curufinwë.

“We now find ourselves between a rock and a hard place,” Nolofinwë said, sounding both resigned and weary. “For we either give up our tongue, or we make an enemy of Elwë.”

“Why should we worry? He is our _ally_ in name only,” Curufinwë retorted, seeing at a glance that he was far from the only one appalled at the King of Doriath’s brand of justice. “The only Noldor he will suffer to enter his guarded kingdom are the children of Arafinwë – not one of their followers has he permitted within the bounds the maia queen has drawn about their realm. And now he expels even them, kin though they are to him, regardless that the sons of Arafinwë shed no blood at Alqualondë.”

He did not think it necessary to remind anyone that the daughter of Arafinwë had extracted plenty of Noldorin blood in defense of her mother’s people. Indeed, he cannot for the life of him understand why Artanis should share her brothers’ exile from Doriath when she alone had defended the kin Elwë claims to be so upset over. By his reckoning, as Olwë’s granddaughter, she is as closely related to the Sindarin king as any that fell at Alqualondë except her mother’s brothers.

“Elwë and his folk come not forth to battle,” Curufinwë continued, “nor do they aid us in our endeavors save that the Greymantle deigns to grant us lands they themselves did not hold. For his nebulous _good will_ we should give up the language of your father and mine? And, I assume, tolerate his poor treatment of my uncle’s children?”

Artanis meets his eye at that, and he shot her a brief smile, wanting her to know that even if Findekano will not, her other cousins will take up for her in her eldest brother’s absence. Tyelko may feel differently – for he was the one who had actually crossed swords with her – but Curufinwë has never held Alqualondë against her. In her place, he might well have done the same. He surely would have held a sword one way or the other – not stood by gaping like an idiot as her brothers had all done.

“He has not treated us poorly,” Aikanaro said. His voice rang hollow, however. “Only sent us from his realm while his anger is hot.”

“Oh?” Curufinwë asked. “He has not mistreated you? His wrath does not lie on you as well as on us whose actions deserve it? Where is my little cousin’s husband, then, that I may greet him and offer my hearty congratulations on their recent union?”

Artanis flinched, and that more than Angarato’s scowl told him that he had struck true.

Nolofinwë looked truly discomforted by that, as if he had only just now noticed the gold that wreathed his niece’s forefinger – and the lack of husband at her side.

“Your words are not the kindest, _cousin_ ,” Angarato growled. “Have a care-”

“I am not the kindest person, so my words should not surprise you,” Curufinwë pointed out brusquely. “Yet kind or not, they were not aimed at your sister. Artanis, was it your husband’s decision or his king’s that sent you here without him?”

“I go by Galadriel now, cousin,” she replied, more subdued than was her wont, but her voice firm. “And it was at Thingol’s command that Celeborn remained in Doriath, not his own choice.”

Curufinwë did not want to single out his baby cousin further when she looked so unaccustomedly fragile, nor did he trust that any words he might say to her while so angry on her behalf would not be taken amiss by her older brothers, so he simply nodded and turned back to his half-uncle.

“If such are the actions of King Greycloak when he is our ally, I do not see how it helps us to retain such a friend. He is not Lord Cirdan, who fights the Enemy at our side. He would have us give up much to salve his anger, yet if we do not, what consequence to us? He will not make war on us – he will keep within the protection of his wife’s borders to the bitter end.”

Nolofinwë did not dismiss his words out of hand, which was heartening. Curufinwë could tell it sat no better with his half-uncle or his cousins to submit to this ban on Quenya than it did with him.

“Irimë, what say you to this demand?” Nolofinwë asked. “It is plain enough what the younger generation thinks, for none have contradicted Atarinkë.”

Curufinwë stifled his smile. To phrase is as a ‘demand’ meant Nolofinwë did not believe Thingol had the right to issue such a decree, and might yet refuse. And his cousins would not have hesitated to argue against him were they not just as furious as he was. He was the least popular of his brothers – even Carnistir’s hot temper was generally readily forgiven once his anger subsided. (Artanis and Irissë’s ongoing feud with Tyelko had taken on a life of its own, and Curufinwë was far from the only one staying safely out of it.)

His aunt shrugged.

“Atarinkë seems to have the right of it,” she sighed. “We either anger Elwë, or give up our language and all that goes with it. We gain little by yielding to him, and lose much.”

“Though there might be some small benefit,” Laurefindil piped up.

Curufinwë tried not to sigh audibly. His aunt’s golden-haired son wasn’t the cleverest, and probably at a loss for what to do with himself now that his four younger cousins were all elsewhere – one in Mandos, one with his older brothers, one wherever Turvo had dragged her, and Artanis now married and someone else’s to look after.

Assuming the marriage survived the current crisis, of course…

“Oh?” Nolofinwë asked, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

“My cousin would be _Curufin_ were his name Sindarized,” Laurefindil said with a smirk. “Which his father never used, and though not his preferred name, would probably be more to his liking than _Atarinkë_.”

“Yes, _Glorfindel_ ,” Curufinwë growled, willing to show that two could play that game “clearly we should all take up an entirely different language merely so you can see me and our uncle discomfited in equal measure.”

It was the first time in far too long he had heard Artanis laugh. Under the circumstances, he’ll put up with Laurë’s twisted logic if it will bring a smile to her face.


	2. Ne'er Be Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely covers the 'Unclean Things' square on the Taboo card. I feel like it flirts with a couple others but doesn't really deal with them head on.

It was several days before he had a chance to speak with Artanis again – tense days in which the court seethed with barely suppressed anger as the King deliberated in private how to respond to the Sindarin King’s insolent decree.

Artanis wasn’t exactly hiding, but nor was she her usual approachable self. The first few days she kept to her rooms unless Laurefindil or Irimë chivvied her outside. Though he could have sought her out, Curufinwë judged it wiser to let her brothers’ moods settle first. He did not mind serving as the outlet for others’ tempers when it was truly required, but it was not a role he favored when it could be avoided.

Messengers from Doriath arrived on the fifth day after the children of Arafinwë had reached Mithrim – and Curufinwë could easily see the insult in that, as if his cousins were liars not to be trusted to convey Elwë’s words accurately. (It would be understandable if it were him or his brothers, but Curufinwë was not entirely sure Findarato has ever told a lie in his life, and his younger brothers have yet to show so much as an ounce of anything like guile.)

The messengers refused to speak Quenya. As Nolofinwë could not converse in Sindarin, that meant one of Arafinwë’s children would need to convey their words to the king, for they were the only ones present fluent both in the language of the Grey Elves and the Noldor.

Artanis, on understanding the farce that was to be played out, excused herself from the great hall with alacrity, pointedly asking her uncle’s permission in the Noldorin tongue before taking her leave without deigning to acknowledge the presence of the Sindarin emissaries.

To his surprise, Curufinwë saw that her brothers were openly angry and refused to translate. In fact, if he had understood them correctly – and while the demand that he give up his cradle tongue was insulting, it irked him nonetheless that he could not yet reliably understand the language of the Grey Elves when spoken at speed – they had told the Sindar that as they were banned from using their father’s language, they could scarcely translate for their uncle, could they?

The looks they had been giving the one who seemed to be in charge of the small delegation were flatly furious, and Curufinwë dearly wished he knew what else was going on beneath the surface. He also appreciated that they’d then declined to speak Sindarin, speaking to each other in Telerin as they departed.

In the end, it had been Artaresto who took the place at the hand of the King and translated as the party from Menegroth repeated Thingol’s ban on Quenya.

How such a ban was supposed to be justice still eluded Curufinwë. It could only make for ill-feeling on the Noldor side, particularly since there were many both here and in Nargothrond who had taken no part in the Kinslaying, and the greatest part of those who had sincerely regretted having joined the fight without knowing how it had come to blows in the first place.

Had anyone bothered to ask him, Curufinwë could have easily predicted how Nelyafinwë would answer the Grey King’s demand when the news reached him – with utter scorn. Having already been condemned by a far loftier judge than Elwë Greycloak, and suffered the wrath of a more frightful opponent, there was little point to surrendering their language when they could expect nothing in return.

His half-uncle, unfortunately, did not agree.

“Tell the ambassador this,” Nolofinwë had said, his silver eyes flashing. “As a gesture of our goodwill toward the people of Doriath, we shall learn the Sindarin tongue. But we will not forget the Grey King’s singular brand of justice, and should he transgress against us, we will expect him to abide by _our_ justice as we now abide by his.”

Given that the ambassadors looked as furious at Nolofinwë’s words as every Noldo in the room felt at Elwë’s demand, Curufinwë reluctantly decided that such an unsatisfactory draw would have to do.

Nolofinwë rose and left the hall, signaling by his departure rather than his words that he considered the audience at an end.

Curufinwë had not fully understood the next question put to Artaresto, but his cousin’s son spoke clearly enough that he understood the answer plainly – and that it carried with it the anger of all the Arafinwions.

“Of course you may see Merelin if you wish,” Artaresto said, his voice dripping disdain. “Unlike some, I do not seek to separate any from spouse or kin. Nor was it _I_ who instructed her to choose.”

He then turned on his heel in what Curufinwë could only conclude was studied insult and left without another word.

Given that most courtiers wanted nothing to do with the Sindar, they were rapidly left alone in the hall.

Curufinwë smiled, and deliberately mangled his Sindarin when he spoke to them. Normally he would have scorned to make himself sound so uneducated, but it would force the Sindar to work harder to hold the conversation. At the moment, that amused him.

“I afraid most not care for you king revenge,” he said with a smile. “They see insult, grey king demand they give up much when not _their_ actions he punish.”

“At least you make some effort,” muttered one of them. “They do not wish to do even that much.”

Curufinwë snorted, and in his irritation, spoke closer to normal than he had meant to.

“Little effort, as would you know if ever spoke the folk of Doriath to me. Curufin am I in your tongue, and my guard in Himlad makes safe your northeastern borders.”

They clearly knew who he was, for they looked appalled. Perhaps by their mores, they were now unclean merely for speaking to a Kinslayer. But their leader swallowed whatever answer he clearly wished to make.

“Your name is known to us, though we knew not you were he. As you are one of the few here that will speak to us, know you where we might find the Lady Galadriel?”

Curufinwë couldn’t resist twisting the knife a bit. If these trolls were party to the hurt done his little cousin, he was not about to make whatever errand they had been charged with easier.

“I know no Galadriel. Who is she?” he replied.

“She is the sister of Finrod, Angrod, and Aegnor. Finrod remains in Nargothrond, but Angrod and Aegnor were in the hall earlier, before your king spoke.”

“Artanis,” Curufinwë nodded as though only just understanding who they meant. “Where she is I know not. Her anger was great, she left before you spoke.”

Two of the Sindar, who by their looks were either brothers or cousins, exchanged a glance.

“We are unlikely to find her on our own,” the older one said. “We may not even find Merelin if none here are willing to help.”

The one who had spoken originally sighed.

“Can I trust you to give this to her?” he asked.

He held out a letter. The hand was unfamiliar to Curufinwë. If this was some fresh malice on Elwë’s part, he wanted none of it. Let the Sindar do their own dirty work.

“Who from?” he asked flatly, folding his arms across his chest, making it clear by his stance that he did not like the request.

“Her husband,” the Sinda replied quietly. “My cousin Celeborn.”

Curufinwë looked the other elf in the eye for a long moment, then finally reached out to take the letter.

“For _her_ ,” he said firmly. “Not for you or for him.”

The other man looked as though he would argue, but his companion tugged at his sleeve, giving him a pointed look, and he settled for nodding curtly before the pair of them turned to leave, presumably in search of Artaresto’s wife.

Curufinwë did not bother to wish them joy – in fact, he rather hoped they encountered Angarato’s son in their search. He knew he would have been livid if his pregnant wife had been forced to choose between her husband on one hand and her kin and home on the other. Many supposed that because his Arafinwion cousins were normally of good cheer and friendly to all that they did not get angry.

Any fool who thought so would discover their error the day they saw an Arafinwion pushed beyond the limit of his temper. He rather suspected Artaresto was well beyond that point and ready to explode.

While he might not _know_ where Artanis was, Curufinwë knew his younger cousin well enough to guess where she was most likely to be. He headed straight for the private gardens, where the Sindar would not be admitted save in the company of a member of the royal family – none of whom were in any mood to invite them in. He nodded pleasantly to the guards as he passed them.

He found Artanis sitting in a concealed alcove on the far side of the fountain, nearly hidden behind the trailing branches of a young willow.

“Do you wish to know how it went?” he asked, dispensing with any false cheerful greeting.

She rolled her eyes.

Aikanaro and Angarato had little use for him, but Artanis, as one of only two girls in their large extended family – and the pair of them the ‘babies’ to boot – had quickly discovered as a child that her older cousin Curufinwë was quite unlike the rest of the family in that he would answer nearly any question put to him _honestly_. Not only that, he would keep answering until she understood. He had become a great favorite of hers as a result, for she had had more questions in her tiny head than all three of her older brothers combined.

The only questions he had ever demurred on were those she had posed in her earliest years that trod too close to Noldorin and occasionally Vanyarin taboos for comfort – he had no wish to suffer his grandfather’s wrath, or his grandfather’s wife. Where babies came from he had answered up to a point, but the explanation of the exact process of making them he had decided better left to his aunt and uncle.

He had been scolded by Indis as it was, for talking to such a young elfling about such matters. That she had _asked_ hadn’t mattered at all. Fortunately, his grandfather had intervened and suggested that young Atarinkë just needed to exercise better discretion about when to send a seven-year-old to ask her parents instead of her cousin.

He had shortly thereafter explained to Artanis that if she wanted him to continue to answer questions, she needed to not repeat who had told her the answers when they were questions that would upset her parents or her grandmother. She had been remarkably good at holding her end of the bargain.

“I assume it went badly,” she replied. “How could it not?”

“Your brothers refused to have any part in it,” he said, sprawling on the ground as he would not before anyone else here but her. If the others want to continue to treat him as though he was a lesser servant of Morgoth or an extension of his father instead of the cousin they’ve known all their lives, so be it.

“Good,” she said quietly.

He could hear the satisfaction in her tone.

“What did Thingol actually do?” he asked curiously. “Artaresto said something that made me wonder.”

Her mouth twisted.

“Cast us out. After all, we said nothing when others slew _his_ kin,” she sniffed disdainfully. “As though they were not _our_ kin also.”

“Did no one tell him you wielded a sword against us?” Curufinwë asked, still unable to fathom how it is that she had come in for such particular nastiness on the part of Elwë Greycloak.

“My brothers did, for all the good it accomplished,” she replied bitterly. “I am merely a different sort of Kinslayer in his eyes.”

“Who would have thought his judgement would align so closely with the Valar’s?” Curufinwë mused.

Her brothers could have turned back with their father. For Artanis, there had been no such choice – unless she had been willing to be branded a Kinslayer and seek pardon as such. Curufinwë knew he would never have abased himself so, and he couldn’t imagine it of her any more than of himself. If Artanis sought pardon, it would be from him and his brothers. The only other ones who could absolve her were in Mandos, beyond her power to ask.

Though some of his older brothers saw the matter differently, Curufinwë did not believe she had anything to apologize for anyway. She made her choices and held to them, and had not been daunted by the Valar or the Ice.

If that Sindar lordling whose greatness lay mostly in his choice of wife thought to intimidate her, he much misjudged Artanis Nerwen Arafinwiel. 

“What did Orodreth say?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

“He went by that name before Thingol’s decree,” she answered his unspoken challenge. “As I was Galadriel. Though he chose to take a Sindarin name to make it easier for his wife.”

“And you?”

“The name was given me by Celeborn,” she replied. “And I like it.”

_Better than Nerwen, certainly_ , Curufinwë thought.

Not that his family could throw stones when it came to naming. Fëanaro had been better at creating both things and children than naming them. Their father names were, aside from his own and Tyelko’s, generally nothing to brag about. Nelyo’s and the Ambarussa’s had been thinly veiled slams at Nolofinwë (and to a lesser degree Arafinwë). Makalaurë’s was so generic it might have been any son of the House of Finwë, and Carnastir’s sounded like his father hadn’t even been paying attention.

“Your nephew told the Sindar that unlike some, he did not seek to separate anyone from spouse or kin.”

Like a thundercloud over the sea, a squall darkened her eyes.

“Thingol would have kept me in Doriath for Celeborn’s sake when he expelled my brothers, though it was made clear that as I had actually used a sword that day, my presence would defile Menegroth. But I said if my brothers were not welcome there, I would not stay either. I would not remain where it was clear that I was unwanted and seen as something _unclean_.”

Artanis had to resort a word normally used for objects, not for people, as whatever concept the Sindar had wielded against her was not one the Noldor recognized. They knew that Kinslaying was uniquely wrong, of course. But the notion that it somehow permanently contaminated those who had done it was not one they had the luxury of holding – too many among them, Artanis included, had shed Eldarin blood that day.

Serious though the matter was, Curufinwë still had to stifle a laugh. While she was not as restless as Irissë, trying to hold Artanis anywhere against her will was a doomed venture.

“I take it that was when he decided your husband should stay?” he asked lightly.

She went silent, which was all the answer he needed.

Her marriage could not be more than a few years old, for though she herself did not come to Mithrim, she wrote regularly to her uncle, aunt, and cousins. Had she married before his last visit, Curufinwë would surely have heard of it. Indeed, he rather thought his brothers would have spoken of the marriage with wonder had they known of it, for Artanis had refused many would-be suitors in Tirion. So perhaps not even a few years. A year or less.

Most newly-wed couples could scarce stand to be separated. Curufinwë could still remember how he and Tyelpesilmë had been constantly in each other’s company for the first months of their marriage, unable to bear a parting of more than a few hours. They had been married over a decade before he had spent a night away from her, and that had been for an errand of the gravest urgency.

He and his wife were the norm, not the exception. Even now, he felt her absence as a wound in his fëa. (It did no good to recall that particular wound was self-inflicted, and he usually tried not to think on the manner of their parting.)

As such, it was quite cruel of Thingol to insist on parting Artanis and her Celeborn – who was, from the sound of it, a kinsman of the Sindarin king.

“Indeed. Insufferable Noldo that I am, he would not see his kin come under our curse.”

At that, Curufinwë nearly laughed out loud, for Artanis had spent much of her youth hearing how very un-Noldor she was. His father had been one of her foremost critics, ever quick to spot Telerin habits and speech patterns in Arafinwë’s children. To now be told she was too Noldor must have galled her no end.

“It is unlike you to allow him to have the last word,” Curufinwë observed.

Artanis had the worst temper of her father’s children, and given that the Sindar king had pushed nearly every one of her buttons, he could not imagine her holding back.

“I didn’t,” she said ruefully. “I told him that little though he might like it, I was also his kin and had been long enough in his kingdom that any curse I might bear had already come to Doriath. And that if he thought that hiding behind the Girdle would let him escape Doom, the more fool he.”

“That’s more like the Artë I remember,” Curufinwë snickered, aware that the only regret on her part would be having lost control of her temper, not having told the Sindarin king unpleasant truths.

“The Valar do hold to their word,” she mused. “ _Tears unnumbered_ were we promised, after all.”

“And treason of kin unto kin, and fear of treason,” Curufinwë sighed tiredly. He knew the words of the Doom as well as he knew the words of the Oath. “Here.”

He held out the letter.

“The Sindarin emissaries knew they had little chance of finding Merelin without help, and still less of finding you. I consented to bear it for your sake, not for theirs, though I fear it contributed to their peace of mind all the same.”

The eyes that meet his held only the slightest hint of reproof, as well as exasperated admiration that he could manage to be both a sweet older cousin and an utter bastard at the same time.

She slid off the bench and tucked herself into his side, reading silently. He slipped a comforting arm about her shoulders and said nothing as she read, content to enjoy his cousin’s silent, undemanding companionship. He would have hotly denied it had anyone ever guessed, but she had often inspired in him the guilty thought that it might have been nice to have a pair of baby sisters instead of baby brothers.

She sighed when she finished.

“Thingol has not relented.”

“Did you seriously expect he would?” Curufinwë asked, surprised. Artë had more sense than to think that stiff-necked Sinda would back down so quickly.

“No,” she said with a frown. “But I did hope he would release Celeborn sooner. My unhappiness is nothing to him at present, but Celeborn’s he can see before him as long as he continues to demand his presence in Menegroth. It does not sit well with my husband to feel he is his uncle’s prisoner any more that it did with me.”


	3. People Like Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, all credit to [Himring](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring), whose story [Galadriel: There and Back Again](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8881981/chapters/20362348) gave me the idea for Galadriel's trick.
> 
> Also, while I've been making progress at a pretty good clip, it's only fair to warn that there probably won't be anything more for at least a week - I have a busy spell coming up and can't be sure I'll have time to write, let alone post anything.
> 
> Finally, I'm not sure I actually hit any squares on the Taboo card in this chapter. (Maybe obscene gestures right there at the end if you squint...) Worry not, there's more taboos to come in future chapters.

Curufinwë was unsurprised to hear the sound of someone sneaking out of the royal wing late that night. He had asked to have the room nearest the entrance for this very purpose – though he had given the excuse that he meant to be off before dawn to begin the long journey to Himring, and did not wish to disturb his aunt or cousins so early. 

His half-uncle had nodded, and charged him to report all that had passed here to Maedhros.

Curufinwë had refrained from rolling his eyes and asking what else he would do – communicating and reporting back to his oldest brother was the entire point of him being here in the first place.

Fortunately for his current plan, Maedhros would not care how long he was in the journey, for he had already dispatched a message with a passing hawk. (Tyelkormo might not come to Mithrim anymore, but he was still useful in his own way.)

So it was easy enough for him to stroll outside with his pack and be casually leaning against a wall by the time Artanis emerged into the moonlight.

She glared at him, which drew only a smirk in return. She couldn’t very well tell him off as she was clearly dying to do without alerting the royal guard that she was outside. And he had the oddest feeling that if she were found out here, she’d be escorted right back inside without delay no matter how imperious an attitude she struck.

He jerked his head toward the southern road – the one she would need to take if she were making for Nargothrond. Not that Curufinwë knew exactly where Findarato’s concealed kingdom lay, of course, but he knew enough to make a rough guess, and to be certain that was where Artë was heading.

She pressed her lips together, showing her irritation, but she was hardly in a position to argue. If she tried to demur, he had only to raise his voice and the guards would be demanding to know where she thought she was going.

There were some disadvantages to being one of the youngest members of the royal family, and the only girl left standing. Overprotective uncles were one of them. Nolofinwë was taking keeping Artanis safe in the absence of her father and older brothers quite seriously.

Angarato and Aikanaro had departed that evening for Dorthonion, where they meant to supervise the final stages of construction on the tower at Tol Sirion, and were speaking of planning a new fortress in the highlands. From the sound of it, Thingol’s temper would cool before theirs did. (Artaresto remained, and likely would not stir from Mithrim before his wife gave birth in Tuilë at the earliest – indeed, probably not for several years thereafter if the pair had any sense.)

With Irissë and Itarillë gone wherever Turukano had hidden himself and his folk, that left Artanis the only princess of the Noldor in Mithrim, and Curufinwë had been observing her rapidly evaporating patience with no small amount of amusement. Even in Tirion she had not had to put up with so much nonsense – especially not since she had learned how to get around most of it very early on.

Curufinwë was still rather proud of himself for teaching her the trick.

Artanis had been all of five when he had come across her pouting in the palace playroom. Irissë was visiting her mother’s parents, and Ambarussa were at home with their oldest brothers that day, so Artë had no playmates. She had been sent in from the gardens that the adults might speak freely.

“Cousin, will you play with me please?” she asked sweetly.

He was not fooled by the adorable act – he knew perfectly well the little girl was no better behaved than his baby brothers, and as often as not the driving force behind the mischief the four youngest Finwions were caught in.

“What if I say no?” he asked, more to gauge her reaction than from any inclination to actually refuse.

“I’ll wail and say you were mean when the nanny comes running to check on me,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Grandmother’s not here today, so it will be Grandfather who hears about it.”

She had him there, the little minx. He wouldn’t have minded Indis complaining that he had been ‘mean’ to her youngest (and most interesting) grandbaby, but he didn’t want his grandfather cross with him. He would have been annoyed had he not admired that such a young kid could think things through so well.

“Fine. What do you want to play?” he sighed, resigned.

“I don’t want to play in here,” she explained. “I want to go out by the fountains so I can hear what’s going on. I’ll get in trouble if I go by myself, but not if you are with me.”

“I can tell you what’s going on,” Curufinwë said, rolling his eyes. He knew she was inside so as not to hear. She might not get in trouble if she finagled him into going out in the garden with her, but he probably would – at the very least, he’d be scolded by his father later for getting out-maneuvered by a five-year-old. “Your father is stuck playing peacemaker yet again while mine and Irissë’s argue like elflings younger than you, just with bigger words. You are missing nothing.”

“It’s _boring_ in here,” she pouted.

“So we do something else,” shrugged Curufinwë. “Has your father or brother ever taken you to the library?”

“Grandfather’s library?” she asked, puzzled.

He could see her thinking ‘we play in grandfather’s library all the time’, and realized he hadn’t been clear enough for a child.

“No, the Royal Library. Where the scholars work,” he explained, infusing his voice with a hint of challenge and mystery. He suspected she was still considered too young for it yet, though given that she was the most un-little-girlish little girl he’d ever known, he couldn’t think why.

“I’m not allowed. I have to stay in the palace unless Atto or Ammë or Findarato is with me,” Artanis protested, but he could see she liked the idea. “That’s the rule.”

He laughed.

“You’re a smart girl, Artanis. Have you ever paid attention to Uncle Fëanaro?”

She blinked, trying to reason out where he was going with this.

“Of course,” she said uncertainly.

“What do you see him do?”

The confusion that greeted him reminded him that precocious as she might be, Artanis was only five.

“Does Uncle Fëanaro follow the rules?”

That got a decided shake of her silver-gold head.

“No. He does whatever he wants to do, even if it’s not very nice.”

“Exactly. And does he get in trouble for it?” he followed up.

This time he could see the resentful spark in her eyes when she shook her head.

“No. Grandfather never scolds _him_.”

_Unlike all the rest of us, who get scolded when we get caught doing things we’re not supposed to do_ , he could practically hear her thinking.

“Do you want to know how he manages it?” Curufinwë asked, with an air of one about to give up a great secret.

“I thought it was because he is the Crown Prince,” Artë replied, her little brow furrowed as she peered up at him.

“That helps, but mostly it is because _he behaves as though the rules do not apply to him_.”

Artanis frowned.

“It is that simple?” she demanded in astonishment. “Act as if the rules do not apply and they don’t?”

“If you behave as though the rules are not for you, more often than not, other people will invent reasons for why they should not apply to you,” Curufinwë said knowingly. “Watch my atto more closely if you do not believe me.”

She looked thoughtful.

“Why don’t you do what Uncle Fëanaro does?” she asked. “You don’t act as though the rules do not apply to you, you just act as though the rules are _stupid_.”

“Many of them are,” he snorted. “Aren’t you the one who decided that from now on when you played with Ambarussa, it would be the princesses who saved the princes?”

She grinned.

“Yes. Irissë and I were bored being the ones who always got kidnapped by orcs or trapped by wolves. It wasn't fair. It’s more fun when we get a turn to be the heroes.”

He could see her point- except that the last time they had played, the princesses had gotten distracted by ‘pony’ rides with Tyelkormo and forgotten to save the princes. Nerdanel had been unamused to discover they’d locked themselves into the glass garden on such a warm day with nothing to eat or drink. Ambarussa had been lucky not to get heatsick.

“Did you want to go to the library or not, hero? Rumil is finishing a new manuscript about the creatures of the sea. You would like the drawings.”

He knew that would be a sure-fire way to spark her interest, with her Telerin kin and frequent trips to the sea.

“Yes, please, cousin.”

Her little hand extended upward expectantly.

“I am not going to carry you,” he told her with a frown.

She gave him a look as if _he_ were stupid.

“I do not expect you to,” she said loftily – or as lofty as someone more than three feet shorter than the cousin she was talking to could manage. “But I have also seen that when Uncle is behaving as though the rules do not apply, he will follow _little_ rules while ignoring the big ones. Holding someone’s hand when we go walking outside is a little rule.”

She'd had a point. He held her hand.

Once she had learned _behave as though the rules do not apply_ , Artanis had perfected the art. She had even used it on Fëanaro himself, to his great ire – the Crown Prince was not used to hearing ‘no’ from anyone, much less an emphatic, irreversible ‘no’, and most definitely not from his youngest brother’s baby girl.

It was probably slightly disloyal of him, but Curufinwë had thought it quite funny that Artanis had refused his father’s request for her hair – and all the funnier because of her expression when she did, as if she couldn’t conceive why in Arda he would have ever thought she would say yes to such a ridiculous question.

Thus he was not at all surprised to find her simply ignoring their uncle’s rule that she should not leave the royal palace or travel alone in Beleriand. She had no doubt filed those dictates under ‘does not apply’ in her head and was blithely doing as seemed best to her.

She glared at him silently for a very long minute before he held out a hand and raised an eyebrow.

Rolling her eyes, she took his hand as though she were five again and the two of them set off down the road.

They did not speak until they had gone some miles, well beyond earshot of even the most conscientious guards.

“What are you up to, Curufinwë?” she hissed.

“Why are you whispering, Artanis?” he asked archly.

She glared at him again.

“I am not whispering,” she announced. “Nor am I going another step until you tell me what you are doing.”

“For posterity, since I know you will never let me hear the end of it- and my brothers may not either, should anyone ever tell them- I am _agreeing with Uncle Nolofinwë_ that you should not be travelling alone,” he sighed with an air of being greatly aggrieved.

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped.

“I have never doubted it,” he replied amiably.

“Then why are you following me?”

“Following? I am not following you. We are walking companionably along together as cousins sometimes do,” he pointed out. “Or am I not allowed to travel with my favorite little cousin?”

For a wonder, she let little pass without challenge.

“And before you threaten to scream your head off until I tell you the whole truth, we are not yet far enough away that they will not hear you if you shout.”

“I have not threatened to _scream my head off_ since I was fourteen.”

“It does not seem so long ago,” he smirked.

Now it was Artanis who rolled her eyes.

“I am perfectly safe going south,” she pointed out. “It is unlikely that I will be troubled by orcs.”

“I merely wish to accompany you to see Findarato’s new stronghold,” Curufinwë said placatingly. “You know how insatiably curious I am. Besides, think of this as a form of insurance– you can always tell Uncle that you did not travel alone should he ask later, and I suspect your brother will also be easier in his mind knowing you had someone with you.”

He only caught the minute sag of her shoulders because he was looking for it.

“Or were you expecting someone else to join you?” he asked.

He’d probably still tag along if her husband were meeting her along the way, because he truly did want to see both Findarato’s caverns and the ner who had managed to charm Artanis. But he’d be surprised if that were the case.

“No,” she said, sounding all at once like a lost little girl. “Celeborn cannot escape Doriath so quickly. He will come to Nargothrond when Thingol’s temper cools. But that will be months, perhaps even years yet.”

“You really should not be alone right now, Artë,” Curufinwë said gently, wondering if she actually understood how extraordinary her current situation was. “It is no weakness to admit it.”

“Oh, very well,” she sighed, sounding exceedingly put upon, but he felt the feather light brush of her spirit against his own that told him she was not as annoyed as she sounded. “Better you than Findekano, anway.”

He snorted.

“You are going in the wrong direction for him. If you want Findekano’s company, you should head east, not south. He may ask politely after Findarato, but it is Nelyo he will actually stir himself to visit.”

She snickered softly, then stopped.

“Will you not be missed?” she asked.

“I told them I meant to depart before dawn,” he shrugged. “Everyone will assume I am making my way back to Himlad. My brothers will not worry if I am gone some months. After I leave you and your brother, I can ride east and follow the Aros north. Perhaps I can even make some rude gestures at Thingol’s wardens on your behalf as I ride past the southern edges of his domain.”


	4. This Hard Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hits Curses, Consequences, and Murder on the bingo board. (The 'Murder' is past tense, and not graphic - they talk about the Kinslaying.)

Journeying with Artanis turned out to be surprisingly restful. Unlike Tyelko, his usual travelling companion, Artë could simply amble along quietly or carry on a conversation when they both were in a mood to talk- and she would not push him to talk if he was in no such mood. She had no desire to go barreling off chasing game or speaking to every animal that crossed her path.

He also noted that she had picked up enough experience of Beleriand in her time with the Sindar that her claim that she could look after herself was no idle boast. Indeed, she was probably safer on her own than Findekano, from what Curufinwë had seen. He had only needed once to be told verbally to stop talking when she’d gone suddenly quiet and _listened_ intently, relaxing only once whatever subtle sign he’d missed had either stopped or revealed itself as something harmless.

Most of the time when she struck that pose, it turned out to be harmless. The fifth time, though, it had not been – they had stumbled onto a small band of orcs, and were it not for Artë’s silent warning, he would have blundered right into them. As it was, they had been able to take the foul creatures unaware and eliminate them before there was any real danger.

Despite that, Curufinwë still felt certain his baby cousin should not be left alone. The Artanis he knew would not have wept silently in the night when she thought he was asleep.

Rather than make for the southeast track that would take them through the mountains and lead them to the north-south road by Tol Sirion, she steered them toward the pass due south of the lake. It would mean travelling in the mountains longer – and a higher risk of encountering the orcs she claimed were no trouble every step of the way – but it would bring them out either by Taeglin or Narog, shortening the remaining journey.

Or so Artë said, at any rate. For all Curufinwë knew, she was taking a circuitous route to throw off any pursuit their uncle might send after her. Or maybe just to see if he’d notice…

“I am not taking you out of the way merely to see if you can remember the route,” she said at last. “Or guess at our destination.”

Blast. He’d forgotten that she had been fairly talented with osanwë to begin with, and been tutored by a maia for the past few decades.

“Oh? There is some reason to your path?”

“I would rather travel directly to the Narog and avoid the crossings of Taeglin – Thingol’s sentries still keep watch there though Brethil itself is outside the Girdle,” she sniffed. “I do not feel my comings and goings are any of his concern at present.”

For the first time, he caught a hint of the fury still raging beneath her apparent cool. Not so resigned to her mistreatment, then – and unlike Irissë who generally wore her heart on her sleeve, Arafinwë’s little girl had always been at her most dangerous when she seemed calm. If you’d crossed Artanis, you were safer if she was raging at you, because that meant she wasn’t channeling her anger into planning your humiliation, comeuppance, or complete destruction.

Morgoth definitely fell into the last category. Thingol had best hope he was still deemed a lesser vexation. Even his wife might not be enough to save him.

“It bothers me not in the least,” Curufinwë shrugged. “Will we pass by Ivrin?”

“We could come down through that vale if you wish it,” she said after a moment. “I had thought to skirt the foothills through Nuath until we reached the source of the Ginglith, but we could just as easily come out of the mountains there and follow the Narog down from its source…”

She paused, and he guessed from the similarity of her expression to one he’d often seen on Finderato that she was mentally calculating possible routes, and choosing the one that seemed best.

“I have fond memories of the family reunion,” he confessed. “Such good memories are rare in these lands.”

She laughed softly, though there was little merriment in it.

“True enough. Very well, we make for Eithel Ivrin.”

It was several days more before he judged it safe to attempt to get her talking about what was bothering her.

“Tell me of Menegroth,” he suggested casually late one afternoon.

They had been speaking of the various elven strongholds, both those already completed and those under construction, and once again playing the guessing game so popular among what remained of their family, “where is Turukano hiding?”

She quieted at once.

“It is a wonder,” she said soberly. “One can hardly believe that it was made by elves and dwarves rather than the Valar and ainur, for it is a living forest of stone and rock, and filled with light even without the sun or moon. It is easy enough to understand why it captured Ingo’s imagination to the point that he decided he too must have the dwarrows’ aid in building his stronghold. It is also the safest place I know in these lands – Melian protects all Doriath, but her protections are strongest there, and none may enter save by her leave.”

“What said Thingol’s queen to Alqualondë?” he asked shrewdly.

The Grey King could make all the fuss he liked, but if his wife was not angry in a like degree, Artanis would soon be forgiven. And surely the maia must see how pointlessly cruel it was to separate a wedded pair… especially since it was likely that Artanis’ husband was suffering just as badly. Thingol could ignore the distress of one he deemed kinslayer easily enough, but surely his other kinsmen would point out the hypocrisy of ignoring his own nephew’s pain.

“She was disappointed that I did not speak sooner,” Artë replied quietly. “And puzzled that I had held so much back.”

“Why did you?” he asked.

This is the part he had not understood. Artanis had been furious with them for Alqualondë.

She and Tyelkormo had come frighteningly close to killing each other there – though Curufinwë happened to know Artë had been fighting to disarm, to wound rather than to kill before his brother and his retainers had attacked her in earnest. After that, she had quickly proved herself just as deadly as any of them. It had taken him, Nelyo, and Ambarussa working together to disarm her and drag her bodily out of the fray before she could do irreparable injury to any of her cousins – particularly Tyelko, whose temper had not been improved by the loss of two of his most loyal swordsmen.

Nelyo had solved the problem of how to keep her from throwing herself back into the fight by putting her on the nearest ship and commanding the retainers they had hastily dragooned into crewing it to cast off, with Ambarussa under orders to do whatever it took to keep her on the bloody boat. They’d had to knock her down and sit on her. He’d never been so thankful his younger brothers were twins.

Artanis had capped it all off by having a blazing row with Fëanaro once the ships were out to sea that evening. It had been serious enough that Curufinwë was still surprised Fëanaro had not answered with his sword. He would like to think that his father had realized that such literal kinslaying would be a step too far, but given the High King’s state of mind at the time, he had his doubts that there had been any rational thought involved.

Curufinwë sometimes wondered if his father had been thinking specifically of Artanis when he burned the boats, or if it had genuinely been solely about Nolofinwë. (He would never say so to her, of course.)

Given all that, the idea that Artanis would hold her tongue to protect them – to protect Tyelko – was ludicrous.

She shrugged.

“How was I to explain it? Yes, my cousins murdered my other cousins and robbed my grandfather, but they were not in their right minds because my other grandfather had just been murdered, and anyway we are all friends again now?” she asked. “Or perhaps that I had come to Beleriand ostensibly following the uncle who threatened to throw me overboard for questioning him?”

Curufinwë blinked. _That_ part of the fight he hadn’t heard.

“You can swim,” he murmured, not sure if he’s protesting the faulty logic or trying to apologize half-heartedly and decades late for the threat.

“I believe the plan was to chain my feet first,” Artanis replied gravely. “Or perhaps my overly free Telerin mouth. I’m not quite clear on that point. At any rate, the only rebellion he intended to tolerate was his own.”

No wonder Nelyo had looked so relieved to hand her off to her father when the ships put into shore later that night. She had stomped off with Irissë and to the best of his knowledge, it was the last time either of them had spoken to Tyelko. (Though he supposed Irissë also had grievances of her own to add to the list of his brother’s crimes. Artanis wasn’t the only one they’d left behind, and Irissë had adored Elenwë.)

“Why did you come?” he asked. “It wasn’t because you thought following Father was a good idea.”

She snorted.

“Going back wasn’t really an option. And at the time, I was angry enough that I intended to follow through on beating your brother to death when next I saw him, no matter how many miles of ice I had to cross to do it.”

He’s fairly sure she was serious, and thankful that she and Tyelko had not come face to face before Findarato sent her to Doriath, where she has been ever since.

“It’s as well I did,” she continued thoughtfully. “We all needed something to keep us going on the Ice. If you had no reason to keep going, sooner or later you gave up. Hating Tyelko worked.”

“Do you still intend to kill him?” he asked, trying to work out how worried he should be about a possible meeting of the two.

“Only if he tries to kill me,” she replied. “I have seen enough since to know that his doom will be worse than any punishment I can devise.”

There was neither malice nor anger in her voice as she spoke, and though Curufinwë felt he ought to be offended for Tyelko’s sake, he could hear the ring of truth in her words. And the faint sorrow, for underneath it all, they were still family. Tyelko had taught Artë to shoot a bow and given her her first riding lessons as a small child. He might yet be her heart-sister Irissë’s beloved. Such ties were difficult to sever, try though they all might.

“And my doom?” he asked lightly, knowing that if she had seen the shape of Tyelko’s, she must have a guess at his as well.

The eyes that meet his are mournful.

“Do you suppose we can change the Doom?” she asked.

That she prevaricated was enough to tell him he did not truly wish to know. But at the same time, he has never lied to her before.

“I do not see how,” he told her resignedly. “You may yet be able to beg pardon of the West, but we swore by the One himself, with Manwë and Varda as witnesses.”

“I do not want you to go into the Void,” came the quiet reply, with all the mulishness of a wayward toddler.

“I do not much want to go there myself,” he said. “I suppose that means we shall just have to get the blasted jewels back.”

Artanis looked away and did not answer.

His heart sank. _Tears unnumbered_ was not all they had been promised. _Vala he is._

Artë was miserable enough without being reminded that any joy in this hard land could only ever be fleeting, and that in the end, all hope would fail. As, he realized tiredly, was he.

_Would that I had not brought my son with me. He should have been left with his mother. Selfish. Selfish and_ stupid _. You knew no good could come of Father’s course, so why did you commit Tyelpë to it?_

But it was too late to change that. All he could do was do what small good was in his power. Right now, that meant taking care of his baby cousin, and hoping deep down in his tainted soul that maybe the Doom might miss her.


	5. The Spaces Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter checks 'ethnocentrism and prejudice', 'culture shock', and 'cannibalism' (discussion only - no actual eating of elves). 
> 
> Also, warning: there is a brief discussion of orcs, which implies sexual violence/forced reproduction against elves.

Going downhill was a pleasant change after picking their way through the mountain passes. It also seemed to lighten Artanis’ mood, and for that, Curufinwë was thankful. His cousin laughed less and frowned more than he remembered even when he compared her to his memories from Mithrim when the host of Nolofinwë had first arrived, hollow cheeked and grim from their years on the Helcaraxë.

He will be severely tempted to test the limits of the maia queen’s enchantments if _this_ is what finally breaks Artanis. His baby cousin had not shrunk from standing up to Fëanaro at his worst, and for failing to do what the Valar themselves hadn’t, failing to _stop_ him, the grey king thinks to punish her?

He had tried several times to speak of inconsequential matters, even gone so far as to warble some of his brother’s more ridiculous ditties (songs he will scarce acknowledge knowing in public, let alone admit to having ever actually sung) but it has not helped that he can see.

Nor, if he was honest, did he really expect it to.

He may be kin, but he was not her beloved Celeborn, and that was who Artanis truly needed, even if her pride would not allow her to admit to it. Not that he did not understand it – he has seen enough to understand that she has been freer in Sindarin society than she was in their own, where daughters were all too often held lesser than sons. Now that she must stand once more as a Noldo – and one too many of her own people still may not fully trust at that – she will not allow herself to show weakness.

Even if it would not be weakness, but honesty. And a heartache that many of their people should understand all too well, for thousands of pairs had been sundered with the Flight and the Exile. Fully a third of their host know the same pain if not worse, for there are now also widows and widowers among them – words they had not even known in Aman, concepts unneeded in a land where only Miriel Þerindë had ever died.

He sighed. It was not right.

 _Ever the idealist_ , a voice inside him that sounded suspiciously like Silmë whispered.

 _I deserve this_ , he told that inner voice sternly. _I did everything Thingol accused her of and more. She dared stand up and defy Atar. And she lived._

 _Because she’s Artanis_ , the voice sighed. _It did not work so well for Telvo, did it? But I suppose he deserved it as well?_

He had no answer to that, because Pityo hadn’t deserved his fate. But it was also foolish to think that ‘deserve’ mattered anymore. It had ceased to matter after the Doom.

He trudged along, mulling the Doom, and the Ice, and Telvo and Aryo and Ambarussa and Artanis, not speaking, until they stopped for the night.

Artanis did not try to jolly him into talking when it was plain he didn’t want to be bothered. She simply set about preparing camp, setting up her bedroll and making up the fire.

Though they each carried one, they did not bother with tents unless the weather was bad. The blasted things were more bother to put up than they were worth on warm summer nights, and he had discovered that they both preferred the stars to staring at canvas while they waited for sleep to claim them.

Curufinwë found the stars more soothing and likely to inspire him. He suspected that after the Ice, the memories Artë associated with tents were not particularly pleasant.

He was trying to put himself in a less depressing frame of mind when Artanis looked up and frowned at him.

“You should just ask and be done with it,” she said flatly, poking the fire as if it had offended her.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, loath to mention the Ice to her.

“Your _nothing_ is nails on a slate in my head,” she sighed. “Ask.”

Manwë’s non-existent balls. She had all but ordered him to…

Worse, she looked ready to wait him out and he did not fancy spending a journey of what promised to be several weeks more in a battle of wills – particularly not when Artë was perfectly capable of not saying another word to him for as long as it took.

“Will you tell me about the Helcaraxë?” he asked finally.

“That is quite the _nothing_ ,” she said slowly, looking startled.

“Good to know I can still surprise you occasionally,” he said wryly.

“Why now?” she asked cautiously. “It was years ago.”

He shrugged.

“We’ve never spoken of it.”

Mostly because he’d been worried, and probably rightly so, that her brothers and their cousins might decide that skinning him alive would be the proper response to any such question.

She frowned, eying him pensively.

“Were you anyone else I would call this masochism, or perhaps self-flagellation. But I’ve never known you to wallow in guilt.”

“I’m not wallowing,” he told her, aware that he sounded less than convincing to his own ears. “But you know as well as I do that we will never defeat Morgoth so long as we remain a house divided against itself, and I do not think the breach can be healed so long as we are in ignorance of each other’s experiences.”

“No one else has asked,” she pointed out.

“No one else was in a hurry to risk another bout of kinslaying,” he replied acidly. “It was plain enough what Uncle Nolo thought of us when he arrived – and that no penance would ever be enough. All Nelyo suffered, and he still frowned at him as if Finno took an unnecessary risk.”

“Maybe he did,” came the reply, so quiet he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it rightly.

He stared at her in shock.

“You – _you_ of all people, Artanis – can say that about Maitimo?” he demanded.

“It’s not about Maitimo,” she replied, looking miserable. “I- forget it.”

“No, I’m not going to forget it” he snapped. “This papering over all the cracks between us like they’re just cracks and not gaping chasms has to stop somewhere, and if you can’t manage it, I doubt anyone else will!”

She sighed, looking more wretched than ever, and he felt a pang of guilt. He was supposed to be helping, not making it worse.

“It’s just that I’ve learned a lot from the Sindar – don’t wrinkle your nose!”

She glared at him, but it’s her usual glare, the exasperated ‘stop acting like you know more than I do when we both know you’re as full of shit as the stable midden’ that she’s been turning on him since she was in her late teens, not the ‘so help me, I am going to feed you to the nearest _gaur_ one very small piece at a time’ she reserved for moments of true anger.

“Morgoth is cunning, and he has been toying with the eldar for a very long time – longer than your father had any notion of when he came sailing righteously across Belegaer.”

He raised an eyebrow at the Sindarin word that crept in, but she was too involved in her explanation to notice.

“Orcs were made from elves, did you know that?”

He’s heard rumors to that effect, but he’d never credited them. His jaw must be gaping in a very unusual fashion, judging by the look on her face.

“Curvo,” she said reprovingly. “I know you’ve heard about the Great Hunter.”

He snorted. No way not to when Tyelko had been fond of frightening all the little ones with the tale in turn. He’d given up by the time the babies came along – Ambarussa and the girls had been the only ones to escape unscathed, mostly because Finwë had some rather stern words for his eldest son over Tyelko scaring Lauro silly as a youngster, and Fëanaro had put his foot so firmly down even Tyelko couldn’t ignore it.

“Not just the campfire stories your brother liked to tell,” Artë added wryly.

Or perhaps not unscathed, he realized with a sigh. Tyelko must have told Irissë at some point, and what Irissë knew, Artanis did too. Hopefully not until they were older. Forty at least. Now that he was a parent himself, he felt rather differently about quite a bit of his older brother’s behavior.

“The Sindar found out what happened to the ones taken,” she continued. “I say found out, but it was more like they were shown. He wanted them to know. Sometimes he sent his creations back partially finished. Sometimes he sent the nissi back bearing _litters_.”

He hadn’t understood her rightly, surely. She had used a word only ever applied to animals, for pups and kittens, never for elflings. Twins were unusual among their kind, and he has never heard of a nis bearing more than two children at once. And certainly not... orcs.

“He tricked them many times,” Artanis continued, her eyes bleak. “Always to their cost, losing much more than what they thought they had regained. So when I think of Finno finding Maitimo chained to that rock with no guards around, somehow able to escape unhindered, after all I’ve been warned of about Morgoth’s tricks… I think maybe it _was_ an unnecessary risk. Not because I wasn’t glad to have Maitimo back, but because I’ve heard too many tales since of elves betrayed or slaughtered by the thing that used to be their mate or child, too many rescues that were only a cruel joke. And I can’t help but think – if this is another trick, what is he using Maitimo to do? What will it cost us?”

She looked miserable at the thought, almost as miserable as he felt, because while he may not have heard all the tales, she has clearly heard enough from people she found reliable. Artanis was no credulous child to believe all she is told, and these were no campfire fright tales. She would ask until she was satisfied that she had the truth.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it,” she said after a few moments of silence lay thick between them.

“Like Angband you shouldn’t have,” he growled, suddenly angry, but not at her. She’s not the only one who hadn’t shared this information until now. “You should have said it a long time ago, Artanis! Our not knowing didn’t help _anything_.”

To his own surprise, he caught the thought she hadn’t meant to share – that it didn’t help, not really, because all it did was leave him in the same position as her, knowing there was rotten ice all around, that one false step would be their undoing, and still not knowing what could be trusted.

“I will tell you about the Ice if you truly wish to hear about it,” she offered penitently, though plainly still not convinced.

“Truly, I probably don’t, but I think I ought to, don’t you?” he sighed. “You see now what I mean? The spaces between us have grown wide enough for the ocean to rush in and drown us all, yet most of the family acts as if they haven’t noticed. We behave as though it’s _normal_ that Turukano disappears and takes not only his daughter and sister, but tens of thousands of his father’s host with him, like he’s playing a particularly difficult game of hide and seek! My brothers and yours pretend it’s nothing unusual that we have to plan family gatherings like battles to keep fights from breaking out. And all of it runs straight back to _him_ in the end.”

She nodded, as though what he’s saying is nothing she has not thought of before.

“Very well. What do you wish to know?”

He paused for a second. He knew only the barest of facts about the crossing of the Ice.

“Everything,” he said. “But for a start, how did you come to dare the Ice in the first place? How long did it take? And what was it really like, and don’t say something fatuous like ‘cold’ as Irissë did before she slapped me that first year in Mithrim.”

Artanis’ mirror image had damn near broken his cheekbone, though he’s not sure if it was for the question or for trying to detain her long enough that Tyelko could attempt to speak to her. Possibly both.

“Cold _was_ the defining word for it,” Artanis pointed out. “It was cold beyond anything you’ve ever imagined. Take the bitterest night you were ever out doing something stupid with your brothers in Formenos in the dead of winter, multiply it by as much as you can conceive of, and then think of that forever, and you will have some idea of how cold it was. But there was no fire there. After a while, you were simply so cold, you started to imagine you might be warm, because you could no longer feel the cold properly. It was so cold the cold _burned_. But I imagine the full explanation of what she meant by ‘cold’ took too many words for Irissë’s patience at the time.”

It was a warm night, but Curufinwë found himself shivering all the same.

“To expose any inch of skin was to risk frostbite or worse,” Artanis continued. “Relieving ourselves was a challenge, never mind if you were unfortunate enough to have a runny nose or a sour stomach. The heavy robes the Sindar mock us for weren’t so frivolous on the Ice, because the more layers, the better. All those clothes Moryo laughed about and asked how I brought, as if I’d had a trail of porters carrying my trunks? They were _worn_ every step of the way. I put them on anyone they remotely fit to try to keep them warm, and on some they didn’t. There were boys Tyelpë’s age with their heads wrapped in my court gowns, and my stockings served as mittens for my brothers and their retainers. Irissë did the same. All those trunks we had in Araman and it _still_ wasn’t enough, not nearly enough for all the people who began the march with us.”

She paused, looking bitter.

“But even if it kept the heat of our bodies in, kept us from freezing to death, those layers could also be a danger. Too much cloth would muffle sound, and the sound of the ice under your feet and around you was the only warning you would get before it gave way. If you missed the warning, you might fall through and drown or freeze, or perhaps a tower of ice that looked solid a moment before would topple on you and no one would ever know if you were crushed, bled to death slowly, or froze, because with so much ice, it could not be moved in time to matter, so it would be your tomb all the same. There was no conversation, no singing, no laughter. Even if we’d had the energy to waste on such things, it would have been dangerous. So it was just the wind, and the creak of the ice. And occasionally, the screams.”

Whether she meant to or not, Artanis was giving him more than just words. He could see the featureless darkness, and feel the teeth of the cold.

“We would march until a sufficient number of us were tired enough to justify stopping. Normal food was gone within the first year, not that we were entirely sure how well we were keeping time with nothing but the stars to judge by. After that, there was only whatever we could find – fish, seals, sea birds and their eggs, seaweed, occasionally an ice bear if luck was with us. There was also another animal like a seal that we had no name for, but was good eating when we could get it – the Sindar say the Avarin tribes that used to live in the north called them walrus. But hunting and fishing were not without their own hazards, and it was even odds whether the foragers would return with food or merely with the loss of another of their number to report.”

She held up a hand before he could ask, knowing the question before he could bring himself to say the words.

“If any ate the dead, they never spoke of it. I didn’t see it. I doubt many did. It was not kinslaying, but all the same, it was a level none wished to sink to. And you would have had to eat it raw, for there was no fire. Not so much for lack of things to burn, for I know a few who carried books or wooden trinkets all the way from Tirion to Mithrim, but because fire melts ice, and we feared weak spots too much by then.”

“No one will watch a child starve,” Curufinwë muttered. If it came to eating the flesh of the dead, or watching his son die of hunger, he knew what he would do.

“There were few children left,” Artanis replied grimly. “The lucky ones had been sent back with my father, and when we first started on the Ice, we had not yet learned enough to know what not to do, or that the cold would kill the young ones more swiftly and with less warning. Or had you not noticed how singular Itarillë was?”

He started, because he _ought_ to have noticed. Turvo’s girl was younger than Tyelpë, little more than a babe in arms at the time of the darkening. As a parent himself, he should have spotted the lack of like-aged children running around the lakeside camp with her. Instead, he had noticed only that she did not run as a girl her age should, and that she was never allowed out of sight of her father, aunt, or uncle.

“And Elenwë?” he asked quietly.

He had not dared approach Turvo, or even Finno, to ask how it had happened. All he knew was that she had died on the journey, but he gathered from Artanis’ words that ‘the Ice took her’ covered a whole world of unpleasant possibilities.

“She froze,” Artanis said grimly. “Or perhaps she drowned. It’s hard to say, the rest of us were not close enough to tell if she was dead before she went under the water. Turvo is the only one who would know.”

He supposed he should have expected such an answer, given how vague everything about the Ice seemed to be, but he had hoped for better from Artanis.

But she was not done. He had asked, and she would answer in full.

“A group of us had ventured near enough to the edge of the ice to fish without boring holes,” she continued, her voice distant, as if she were repeating something she had once read in a book in their grandfather’s archives, and not something she had lived.

“A huge chunk broke off and fell into the sea, with Elenwë and her daughter on it. They were not thrown into the water, but Itarillë hurt her leg in the fall. The current was carrying them away toward the open sea. Elenwë had no choice but to try to swim to get back, for to stay where she was meant to accept her own death and her daughter’s.”

He knew what she would say next. Elenwë would have grasped any chance, however slim, to save her only child.

“She went into the water first, and did her best to keep the little one dry. She managed to get close enough to throw Itarillë to where we could pull her out and warm her, but the water was so cold... Elenwë stopped moving, and then she went under. We had to drag Turvo back, with Findekano screaming at him the entire time he better not dare undo the rope we’d tied around him. I doubt Finno truly believed until we had him back on the ice with us that he wouldn’t – though now I think it may have been because his hands were too cold to work the knots. We almost lost Itarillë as well, for her clothing was wet and small as she was, the cold had gone right through her.”

“You said you managed to warm her,” Curufinwë said, keeping his voice level, though he felt sick. If he were Turvo, he wouldn’t have ignored him. He’d have murdered him with his bare hands the next time they came face to face.

“Irissë and I pulled her into a tent and cut the wet things off her, then we held her between us with as many blankets as we had wrapping us to keep what little heat there was in. Aunt Irimë had us rub her limbs until we could feel life in them again. We kept her with us until Turvo was… better.”

 _Better_. Not _recovered_ , or _well_ , because it was clear their cousin was neither and likely never would be again.

“And then we marched on.”


	6. Let It Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this hits the 'murder' square or not in Taboo bingo - that depends on whether or not you subscribe to Fëanor burning his youngest son intentionally or accidentally. 
> 
> Which is of course to say that they're talking Losgar in this chapter.

It took Artanis most of the night to finish telling him all he could stand to know and she could bear to tell about the Ice, including how she came to make the journey in the first place despite Maitimo’s command that she remain with her father.

It did not surprise Curufinwë that his youngest uncle had come to the same conclusion as Artanis: Fëanaro was not a king he could follow. The surprise was that his youngest cousin had continued to Beleriand all the same, though that she wished to be more than merely ‘the princess Artanis Arafinwiel’ in Tirion was not the shock to him it might be to some.

She smiled wryly as she caught sight of the rising sun.

“Appropriate, I suppose, given that we reached Beleriand with the first sunrise,” she said.

One who didn’t know her well might think she was amused.

“Your turn now, cousin,” she said, turning expectant eyes on him. “You spoke of knowing each other’s experiences.”

“Ask,” he bade her, though his mouth went dry at the thought. 

His cousins have never asked, not a single one of them, even though it’s the only question he would have thought worth asking. But they never have.

“ _How could you, Curvo_?” she demanded flatly, the question blunt as a fist and only marginally less painful.

Having demanded she finally say the words that ought by rights to have been thrown at him years ago, he owed Artë a better answer than ‘I don’t know’. He didn’t dare shrug, or try to tell her that he could barely explain it to himself most days.

“Atar ordered us to burn the boats,” he said, trying to look at her, but failing. He winced as he remembered that to the Lindar – and to the granddaughter of Olwë their king – they were ships, not boats. “I don’t think there’s a one of us who didn’t remember you fighting with him, or how he looked when he spoke of it afterwards, and think _I am not Artanis_.”

“How flattering,” she said, with a withering glare.

“He almost killed you,” Curufinwë explained, remembering vividly his panic as he’d tried to find his oldest brother, the only one who might be able to safely intervene. “And he was used to defiance from you! You never obeyed as others did. He marched to his tune, you to yours, and occasionally it chanced that your scores happened not to clash. But we were his sons, and he would not tolerate from us what you could get away with.”

_As the baby. As the girl. As the one to whom the rules did not apply._

She looked thoughtful.

“Someone dared it,” she said quietly.

“Telvo did,” he agreed dully. “Though he argued _before_ the order to burn the ships. He was asleep when we started setting fire to them. By then, standing aside was the best any of us could muster, and only Maitimo at that.”

“Umbarto,” she corrected, with a note in her voice that raised the hair on the back of his neck. She sounded eerily like his mother, though the timbre of their voices had never been alike that he had noted. “His name is Umbarto, and true-named was he.”

He tried to look her in the eye then, but found her looking right through him. Whatever she was seeing was no longer here and now. He wasn’t sure the flames in her eyes were only those of the swanships, and he dropped his own gaze at once. If it was the future she was seeing, he did _not_ want to know. 

He waited patiently until the foresight passed, leaving her once again Artanis.

“Sorry,” she muttered, sounding slightly embarrassed. “That hasn’t happened for a while. Queen Melian has been a good teacher, and a great mentor. But sometimes…”

She shook her head.

“It is not even useful,” she continued, more herself with each word. “Visions are poor guides of what will actually come to pass, and one can go mad trying to choose a course based on Seeing.”

She focused on him, sharply this time.

“Maitimo stood aside?”

He blinked in surprise. 

She had known that, surely? 

He was certain he had told Finno, in those first miserable days after Maitimo had been returned, when they weren’t sure if he would survive. It had been as much penance as inadequate comfort, to let Finno know he hadn’t wasted his gallantry on a completely unworthy object, at a time when it was thought Maitimo might yet have the indecency to die despite it all.

“He would have no part in it,” he said. “He had argued the ships must be sent back as soon as possible to bring the rest of you, and was adamant that we should discuss the order of transport, who should be brought over first. Did you not know?”

She shook her head.

“No. How would I? None of you would speak of it when we first arrived, must less explain why Ambarussa was only one now- and less than one at that.”

It took him a minute to parse her words, and to remember that for her and Irissë, it had been common to refer to both twins by the same name as their mother had originally intended. The youngest Finwions had always known which Ambarussa they spoke of or to, even if no one other than the four of them understood.

It took him somewhat longer to understand how bewildering it must have been for the child who took after her grandmother Indis the most to be around Pityo, who has not been the same since losing his twin.

“What do you hear when you’re near him now?” he asked suddenly, wondering how it’s never occurred to him before now.

She frowned.

“Echoes,” she said slowly. “Echoes, and anger, and things that might be true, or might be just things people say, or maybe things he only imagined.”

He looked at her expectantly but she shook her head.

“I can’t understand them if he doesn’t,” she said irritably. “I don’t think his fëa is entirely there anymore.”

He was as surprised as she was that he heard the silent _and I don’t see how you expect that it would be!_

He nodded, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of old guilt.

“You spoke of screams on the Ice. If it is any comfort to you, or justice perhaps, we heard screams also, and they are a sound I would not wish on anyone, nor the feeling that goes with them, asking yourself if you’ve just killed your own brother.”

She was so still she might have been made of ice in that moment, and he was shocked to see horror in her eyes. This was not new. This could not be new to her – but it somehow was. 

“You… _burned_ him?” she whispered in disbelief. 

Had she genuinely not known any of it?

But he’s never lied to her before, and he didn’t dare start now.

“I don’t know if I cast the torch onto the ship he was on or not, but if I did not, one of us surely did,” he said heavily. “It can be counted no less my doing than theirs. Yes, we burned him.”

And then he remembered how she could be ignorant of it. 

Findarato had not wanted his baby sister anywhere near them, even before Finno brought Maitimo back. She had been sent to her great-uncle in Doriath as soon as Angarato had returned with the news of Elwë’s kingdom, and they had not seen hide nor hair of her until the Mereth Aderthad. Even then, her brothers had contrived to keep her either near to themselves, or with Nolofinwë and Irissë, or among the Green-elves who had come from Ossiriand, and found the hair of the Finarfinions fascinating – in short, anywhere but around her Fëanorion cousins.

She had made the journey back to Doriath with Thingol’s messengers Mablung and Daeron immediately after, and this was the first he had seen her since then.

She sat silent for some time, until finally he was forced to speak.

“You do not even say ‘poor Ambarussa’?” he asked warily, worried what was going on in that golden head.

She shook her head, and there was sadness in every line of her body.

“No, for I fear in time I may come to regard him as the lucky one,” she replied gravely. “He knew nothing of the perils or horrors of Beleriand, and the only treason of kin he experienced was that of Fëanaro. We shall see worse before the Doom extracts its last drop of vengeance from us.”

“You said yourself that foresight is a dangerous guide,” he pointed out, trying to give her some hope, however small.

“True. Let us speak of it no more,” she replied, clearly ready enough to leave her dark forebodings aside.

“Is there anything else you would know, before we come to Ivrin?” he asked. “I would preserve that place as one of happiness, not associated with old hurts and pains.”  
She frowned.

“How came Maitimo into Morgoth’s power in the first place?” she asked. “I know it was said that he feigned to treat with him, and yet..”

“And yet you cannot see Maitimo as one who would use guile against even so false a foe?” Curufinwë asked reluctantly. 

That he could well understand, for Artanis was young enough that Maitimo’s presence had been a promise of absolute safety until Alqualondë. He had never done worse than tease the young ones in the gentlest possible way, and all of them from Makalaurë on down had preferred him to Fëanaro or their own fathers for bumped elbows and skinned knees – and often for hurt feelings as well, for they had the utmost certainty of sympathy and hugs and most likely also a cookie or sweet to soothe away any trouble in their young hearts. They had trusted him with everything.

His oldest brother had been all their father could have been, had Fëanaro been less brilliant with _things_ and more so with _people_.

Which, in hindsight, made him the perfect target for Morgoth.

He was selfishly glad he had not been at close hand to see the tears he was certain must have ensued when the two girls found out Maitimo was a prisoner of the Enemy, much less help curb the no doubt rash attempts at action on Irissë’s part. 

Though it might have been interesting to hear what Artë thought. Artanis had always been the thinker of the group. 

Now she frowned.

“No, Maitimo is a practiced enough politician that I am sure he can be crafty at need,” she told him. “But I would have expected that he would have known better than to try to outwit the one who was underhanded enough that he fooled both Fëanaro and the Valar themselves.” 

“He didn’t fool Atar!” Curufinwë retorted irritably. “He knew Morgoth coveted the Silmarils, and sent him packing.”

“Curvo,” she said with a reproachful look, “I do not deny that your father had no difficulty telling Morgoth to begone and darken his doorstep no more. But it is one thing to know that he coveted the jewels, and another to have worked out what he intended. Can you honestly say your father did? For it looks to me rather as if Fëanaro played right into his hands.”

He tried not to glare at her, because the brat is right – as usual. If Fëanaro had taken his precious gems with him to that dratted festival instead of locking them away in Formenos, Morgoth could never have stolen them – not with all the Valar present. Their grandfather might not have been killed.

And everything after that might never have happened. 

It is not only visions of the future one can go mad from.

 _Cleaning up your atar’s messes for him again_ , he heard Silmë say, plain as day. 

She’d said it often enough in both Tirion and Formenos, for as his father’s preoccupation with his jewels and his half-brother’s suspected plots had grown, it had increasingly been left to his sons to smooth over the ruffled feathers and try to patch up the outrage or hurt of those he had clashed with – including the rest of their family.

Except that this time it was not Anairë’s hurt at her husband being slighted yet again to salve Fëanaro’s ego, or Indis’ patient disappointment at yet another overture of peace rejected, or even Eärwen’s fury spilling over because her children were every bit as much princes of the Noldor as her law-brother’s, and it was not their fault that the language of their father’s people had shifted by the time of their begetting.

It was all of that and more. It was a trail of death and destruction that stretched from Losgar north to the Ice and across it, all the way back down Araman to Alqualondë.

And Fëanaro was not there to be troubled by any of it.

 _Better things to do as usual_ , Silmë sniffed. _I should dearly like to see your father, just_ once _, have to face up to what he’s done._

So would he. But there was no compelling the dead to do anything, and he could not imagine that Namo would have better luck than anyone else who had ever tried to make Finwë’s eldest son see something he did not wish to bother himself with.

Then again, perhaps Namo had gotten the singular joy of chucking Curufinwë Fëanaro out into the Everlasting Darkness for his failure to hold to his Oath. It felt almost traitorous to think such things, but at the same time, it was hard to believe that the man he’d followed across the Sea was the same one he’d idolized as a child. 

_There was a reason you wanted to raise your son differently, Silmë pointed out._

That was something else he didn’t wish to think on. The longer their sojourn in Beleriand, the more intensely he regretted bringing Tyelpë – he wished there was any way to undo it, to yield to his wife’s wisdom however belatedly and return his son to the safety of Tirion. Better the son of a Kinslayer there than one of the Doomed here. And he should not have left Silmë alone…

He sighed, and began to pack his things for the day’s hike.

“Whatever Atar did or didn’t do helps us not now,” he said. “We are here and must make the best of it.”

“Indeed,” Artanis replied, handing him a bit of toasted waybread for breakfast. “We will find what good there is to be had, and hold onto it for however long it lasts.”

 _Short a time as that may be_ , he thought.


	7. One Good Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hits "Table Manners" on the Taboo bingo card. Possibly "Etiquette" also, given that 'nudity' wasn't a space.
> 
> Despite the nudity, no warnings this chapter - just good clean fun.

It was a warm summer afternoon when they at last reached the pools of Ivrin.

The atmosphere was as pleasant and wholesome as Curufinwë remembered it. The smell of flowers, and the song of birds, and the feel of growing things was all around. If you ignored that they were still in Beleriand and Morgoth or his creatures could kill them at any time, they might have been back home, somewhere in the countryside outside Tirion.

Artanis was almost herself amid it all, so Curufinwë had not the heart to refuse when she suggested that they swim before worrying about where to site their sleeping place. He set his pack down and began to dig through it for something to swim in.

He was a bit startled that his cousin simply stripped out of her clothing, but she laughed and told him that was how the Sindar were accustomed to swim, and over her sixty-odd years among them, she had grown used to their ways, to the point that she no longer kept a bathing costume among her things.

“It is most improper,” he muttered, averting his eyes until the water covered her sufficiently for decency.

“As you say, grandmother,” she replied airily as he turned his back to change.

“Indis would lock us _both_ up for years if she could see this – you for doing something so scandalous, and me for not stopping you,” he grumbled.

“Fortunately, she is not here,” Artanis replied, squirting water at him with her hands.

He snorted as he joined her in the water.

“Unfortunately, don’t you mean,” he retorted. “She would have words for your great-uncle as well, and I’d lay odds she’s the wiser of the two.”

Artë snickered.

“Sorry, I don’t think I quite heard you. It sounded awfully like you just said something nice about Grandmother…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said loftily. “You must have inhaled some water, and you’re hearing things.”

A small wave splashed him in the face, and he spluttered, biting back a curse out of habit before he remembered that she was definitely old enough to hear such words now.

“You can say nice things about her, you know. Your father’s not here to hear it,” Artanis said reproachfully. “And inhaling water doesn’t seem to have made you hear things.”

After that, the splash fight was on, ending only when the pair of them were sopping wet and thoroughly exhausted.

It was then that he noticed that Artanis’ skin was turning a bit pink in the sun.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, not sure how to bring up such an issue to his cousin when she was wearing no clothes.

“The same way you would if I had clothes on,” Artë said, rolling her eyes. “The Sindar may have a point when they call us prudes. You just say it! It’s called sunburn, and I’m almost as prone to it as the Sindar.”

She reluctantly left the water, and pawed through her pack until she found a lotion which she slathered liberally on her skin. To his relief, she also shrugged into a tunic. Then she set about putting up her tent, which was large enough for both of them.

“What is sunburn?” Curufinwë asked, stretching out in the sun to dry.

The sun was relatively new, but he hadn’t noticed it having any such effect on him. Then again, he didn’t usually spend so many hours out in it without clothing either. And the light pinkish hue Artanis had acquired all over would scarcely show on his darker skin.

“The elves that lived under the stars for so many years are all paler than us, as I’m sure you must have seen,” Artanis began.

He had noticed. The complexion of many of the moriquendi is not far off from the porcelain his mother used to reserve for dinner with guests, so pale as to be practically white rather than the healthy bronze to deep browns usual among the Noldor and the Vanyar. Even the Teleri, from whom Artanis had inherited her lighter complexion, were still darker than their long-sundered Sindarin kin.

“Those of us who crossed the Ice also lost something of our normal skin color,” Artë continued. “We are not sure if it was from malnutrition, or whether it was from the lack of light. I suspect the light myself, for the Sindar are well fed and healthy, yet still paler than any we knew in the West. Their skin was altered by living for so many years without the light of the trees.”

“Yes, we noticed our skin changed without the treelight also, though not so much as yours. What has all this to do with you turning pink?”

“Pale skin reacts poorly when it is exposed to the sun for too long,” Artanis replied, sounding irritated, and a bit disgusted. “This is a mild case, but if I stayed in the sun too long it would eventually be like a true burn, turning red or even blistering. I never had such a problem by treelight.”

“You were never this sallow by treelight,” Curufinwë muttered, electing not to say that even with the newly acquired burnishing of pink, she still bordered on sickly to his eyes.

He was alert enough to duck the wet towel she flung at him for that, which would otherwise have hit him squarely in the face. (It also distracted him from musing on why the sun would have such an effect when Laurelin had not.)

“I don’t see why you’re worried. Clearly Celeborn finds it attractive enough – and how would he know the difference anyway, if the Sindar are all paler still?”

“It’s annoying,” she grumbled, pinning back the flaps before seating herself in the shade of the tent. “I never used to have to think about such things.”

“All the other dangers we face here and you’re vexed by the _sun_?” he laughed.

“Easy enough for you to say – your skin hasn’t gone all funny!” she retorted, folding her arms across her chest.

He smiled to himself, for Artë sounded completely normal for the first time since Mithrim.

“Does Irissë suffer from the same problem?” he snickered, remembering that she had been the odd one out among her family for her light complexion, nearly matching Artanis for all both her parents were Noldor.

“Worse,” Artanis sighed. “I at least usually remember to use the creams the Sindar have shown us how to concoct to protect the skin. She forgets until she’s burnt. At least, she did when we were last here.”

He filed that thought away to mention to Tyelko later. His brother will be calmer in his mind if he had some news, any news, of Irissë.

“Do you know if she is still in a fury with Tyelko?”

He had been the one to say they should not speak of unpleasantness here, and yet, with her name already being spoken, he found he had to ask.

Artanis seemed to deflate a bit.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, sounding at once smaller. “I last saw her at the Mereth Aderthad. She went with Turvo wherever he has gone, and since then she doesn’t even write. I don’t understand why she can’t write. Even if she could only send a letter with a bird just _once_ …”

Curufinwë, unfortunately, could understand. Turukano no longer trusted any of them to keep safe the secret of wherever he had found to hide himself and his people away. And after what he’d learned from Artë, he can’t find it in him to say his cousin was wrong to think so.

But it would do no good to say that to Artanis.

So he changed the subject.

“Will your skin catch fire if you dare the sun again?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but her glare lacked any real force.

“No, now that I’ve put the proper cream on, it shouldn’t burn any further. Why?”

“I have three bottles of wine somewhere around here.”

She stared in astonishment.

“You carried wine all the way from Mithrim?” she said skeptically.

“Of course not, silly, you’d have heard them clinking in my pack long before now.”

“Not if you’d wrapped them properly so they wouldn’t break on the journey,” she pointed out matter of factly.

“I left the bottles here last time,” he explained, looking around thoughtfully. “The plan was to drink them with Turvo and your brother whenever we all met again. But as I do not think that will happen any time soon-”

_Perhaps ever..._

“-and you and I are here, we may as well open them. No sense letting them go to waste.”

He frowned, trying to remember which pool it was where he’d secreted the bottles away. Was it that one, or the one over there?

It didn’t help that he hadn’t been precisely sober when he’d taken Ingo up on the suggestion to save the last few bottles from their grandfather’s vineyards, one for each of them, for their next meeting – which was to be by the light of a brighter day, after their victory over the Enemy.

He doesn’t truly expect that part to happen anymore, much less Turvo to agree to drink with him even if it by some strange chance did. Ingo had failed to notice that while _he_ was drinking with both of his closest cousins, it was being achieved only by him flitting back and forth between them. And Curufinwë hadn’t realized at the time just how much reason Turvo had to hate him.

Artanis watched his meandering with some amusement for ten minutes or so before sauntering over to a tree at the edge of one of the pools and –

“Are you _talking to a tree_?” he demanded, wondering if he should reconsider the idea of letting her have wine. If this was how she behaved when she had yet to have any alcohol…

“Of course,” she replied, untroubled. “You clearly don’t remember where you left your possessions, but this alder does. It’s that one, by the way.”

He gave her a hard look, fairly sure she was having a laugh at his expense, but he finally marched over the pool she had indicated, and checked in the cool, dry gap between some large rocks – where, much to his consternation, he found the bottles he’d been searching for.

“Is this what you’re learning with the Grey Elves?” he asked sarcastically. “How to converse with trees?”

“Among other things,” she laughed. “I fail to see the problem – you have the wine in hand now, do you not?”

He looked down at it, unable to deny the truth of that statement. She laughed all the harder at his indignant look.

Sighing, he fumbled in his pack for the corkscrew that was sure to be in there somewhere. When he finally came up with it, he opened the first bottle, before quirking an eyebrow at her.

“I don’t suppose _you_ brought glasses, did you?” he asked sheepishly.

She snorted, and held out her hand. He passed the bottle to her, curious to see what she had in mind.

“This one’s mine. Open another for yourself,” she ordered.

He almost choked.

“Artë!”

“Curvo!” she retorted, unperturbed. “No one else is here to see us drinking directly from the bottle.”

“That’s not the problem and you know it!”

She shrugged.

“You’re the one channeling grandmother. Although I suppose table manners were more Aunt Anairë’s thing… Either way, I am not a child anymore that you need to water my wine or stop me after only one glass.”

_And you’re probably in a mood to get well and truly drunk, given everything that’s happened lately, he thought quietly. But even so…_

“These are not some weak Avarin grape juice! A whole bottle would be enough to put _Tyelko_ under the table!”

His older brother has the highest tolerance of any of Finwë’s grandchildren – that they know of, at least, given that Maitimo has never engaged in drinking contests. Finno’s the only one who can come close to matching him, and the one time Ingo had been fool enough to try to keep up, every one of the young neri involved had subsequently been punished by their furious mothers for the messy result – not to mention the tongue lashing Fëanaro had given his middle sons for their foolishness.

Curufinwë still winced just thinking about it.

“Really?” she asked, looking interested. “Take him the third one as a peace offering, then. When he wakes up the morning after, you can tell him the headache is with my compliments, but I’ve changed my mind about strangling him.”

He sighed. He wasn’t sure what was worse – that he was completely failing to dissuade Artanis from her very bad ideas about alcohol distribution, or that as peace overtures went, given that she could not produce Irissë, her plan for Tyelko was probably as good as it got. (Overlooking, of course, the minor detail that it was _his_ wine she was blithely giving away.)

Artanis smiled at his expression and took a relievingly cautious sip.

“Not bad.”

“I should bloody well hope not,” he sniffed. “It’s the last pressing Grandfather did himself.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Excellent. To Grandfather.”

He glared at her, but hastily removed the cork from the bottle that had just become his so he could drink to their grandfather too.

“To Grandfather,” he said, trying not to sigh.

He was going to regret this, he just knew it.


	8. In Vino...

If Curufinwë had worried Artanis might down half the bottle in one go, he was pleasantly disappointed.

It turned out that she drank as gracefully from a bottle as she would have from a glass, and at what he judged to be approximately the same pace.

The bottle just held a lot more than a glass would have…

For a little while she asked after followers of his she had known, and he asked her for what news she had of her brothers, for not only had the younger ones been in Menegroth with her, she wrote to Ingo regularly and so was more up to date than he was on the progress of Ingo’s little building project.

He knew perfectly well she had other things on her mind, but much like with himself, there was no point in pressing Artanis if she wasn’t ready to talk.

 “Curvo?” she asked at last, when they’d been through several innocuous topics and part of their bottles.

“Hm?” he replied, regretting that he couldn’t properly judge the color of the wine through the dark bottle.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Have I ever said no to such a request?”

He took another swig.

“About being married, I mean.”

He swallowed.

 _Damnation_.

“You can ask, but is this something you should speak to your brothers about?”

She frowned.

“I don’t know that it’s really a question they would be able to answer. And it’s for a married ner, not a bachelor like Ingo or Aiko.”

He tried not to panic.

“I don’t like to ask Ango, what with Lótë having turned back with Atto,” she continued. “And I doubt Artaresto would be able to answer, even if I were willing to make my nephew privy to my personal concerns.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You can ask, but I’m not entirely sure I’ll have an answer,” he replied, uncertain where she was going.

“You know that marriage is viewed slightly differently among the Sindar,” she began.

He snorted.

“That much was obvious, yes.”

She gave him a stern look.

“I don’t mean their attitude toward _joining_ ,” she said impatiently, using the Sindar euphemism for sex outside of marriage – a word the Noldor had neither known nor needed before they had come back to Beleriand. “Though I suppose that does enter into it.”

He rolled his eyes. He didn’t think much of the way the Sindar shared their bodies with anyone who woke their interest at the moment, much less the way they avoided the natural union of fëar that was meant to accompany that of hroär.

“Don’t be prudish. The Noldor didn’t learn any different until they reached Aman – and clearly not all Noldor forgot about the old ways, or how did Tyelko and Irissë come by the knowledge?”

Curufinwë very nearly spat out his wine in shock.

He’d known the two of them shared an unnatural attraction for each other, that Tyelko looked on Irissë in an uncousinly way, but to have _acted_ on it… He couldn’t decide if the absence of marriage actually made it better or worse.

“New rule,” he announced crossly, glaring at her. “You will wait until I have _not_ just taken a drink to say such things. This wine is too good to waste.”

“Agreed,” she said with a shrug. “Though I really do not see where it is so shocking.”

“I suppose it shouldn’t be,” he grimaced. “Now that I think on it, that makes quite a few little oddities over the years make far more sense.”

_How driven to distraction Tyelko has been without her, for a start. One could not conduct such an affair for many years with a nis one would have married but for the laws of our people without it having an effect._

“Are you going to be very Noldor about the whole joining thing?” she asked anxiously. “If so, perhaps I shouldn’t talk to you about it. But I don’t know who else to ask. There aren’t very many mixed marriages.”

“I will try my best,” he sighed. “That is all I can promise. It is an attitude I do not understand, or much wish to either. I have to confess I’m relieved that you married properly.”

Artë flushed.

“I actually thought their attitude toward joining was quite sensible,” she confessed. “Why would one not want to be sure that they are compatible with their mate in that way before making a commitment that lasts for the life of Arda?”

He peered at her.

“Artanis, are you telling me-”

“That I joined with Celeborn before we were bound? Yes. As I said, it made sense.”

He nearly spit his wine a second time, though he supposed this one was his own fault for being stupid enough to take a sip before she answered.

“First,” he told her, “that is the only warning I am giving you about bending the rule about saying shocking things when I am drinking before I retaliate. I’m sure I can find _something_ that will make you either spit your wine or snort it out your nose laughing.”

“Duly noted,” she said gravely.

“Second,” he continued, “it is a good thing indeed you did not speak to your brothers about this, whatever _this_ is, because they would have killed Celeborn for behaving so inappropriately! I’m halfway considering it myself!”

She glared at him, though not nearly as harshly as she would have if she thought he meant it in any seriousness.

“Curufinwë,” she said, a hint of danger entering her voice, “ _you_ are the one who was always so adamant about keeping an open mind. You should therefore be able to keep an open mind about this, particularly since I am actually married to the ner in question now!”

“It is still not the way things are meant to be done,” he said mulishly, ignoring the validity of the first part of her statement.

“Not the way things are done among the Noldor, but it is very much the way they are done among the Sindar! To their thinking, it would have been odd not to join at least a few times before marrying, to be sure we were certain of each other and not mistaking a passing infatuation for finding the one we were truly meant for.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“When a Sindarin couple does decide to marry, to formally bind themselves to each other, it is just as sacred and inviolable a union as any among the amanyar.”

“I have conceded the point, Artë. Get on with the actual question.”

“Is it…”

She hesitated.

“Is it _normal_ to speak of children almost at once after marriage?”

He almost laughed with relief, for given how she had approached the subject, he had been expecting far worse.

“No, not at all. The first years of marriage are about the bond with one’s mate, strengthening that bond, and learning what it is to live as a couple now that you are wed. You know it is no longer the same as being unbound.”

She nodded, though somewhat uncertainly.

He raised an eyebrow.

“If you noticed no great difference, then I would say that perhaps you ought to have been more careful about ‘joining’. Do you mean to tell me the Sindar never have accidental unions?”

 “You know perfectly well they do,” she chided. “Artaresto and Merelin were one.”

“That is different,” he snorted. “Arto did not understand the ways of the Sindar at that time. He assumed she meant what any of us would have meant by such an advance, and he was so taken with her that he did not stop to think.”

“They are not the only ones, and it is not always due to cultural differences,” she retorted. “It happens every so often, but most usually among couples who are well-suited to each other in any case. The Sindar and Avari hold that when one meets one’s Eru-intended mate, it may be difficult _not_ to bond at once.”

“You would know better than I,” he shrugged. “Silmë and I both being Noldor, there was no joining, only binding.”

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could say anything.

“I do _not_ want to know,” he said firmly. “There are still a few things in this world which have nothing to do with Morgoth that I do not wish to think on, and you joining with anyone, husband or not, is one of them.”

She looked amused, but subsided in favor of taking another drink herself.

“Anyway, where would you get the idea that children are something a couple think on immediately after marriage?”

She sighed.

“This must be another difference between us and the Sindar,” she said mournfully. “For they _do_ speak of it, almost at once. I was being asked even at the wedding feast when we would beget our first. Thingol led the toasting by hoping we would be _fruitful._ I had not until that moment thought that there might be any significance in the presence of so much more fruit than normal.”

Curufinwë’s jaw dropped.

“But how…?”

He trailed off, trying to make sense of it.

“I suppose there must be some practical reason for it,” Artanis offered uncertainly. “A couple may have been together for many years before they decide to formally bind, so perhaps with that in mind, proceeding to children more quickly is not so surprising?”

He rather thought that even a couple that had been joining for yeni would still need time to adjust to a marriage bond before bringing children into the world, but he had no more certainty than she did what informed the Sindar perspective.

“Or maybe it is due to life here being so much riskier than it was in Aman,” she mused, clearly thinking out loud. “When you know you may die at any time, perhaps it makes begetting a child seem more urgent, that you will have something of your mate, or he of you, if the worst should occur.”

“It is not a line of reasoning that would occur to me,” he snorted, drinking himself. “If anything, I would think the risk should make one _less_ likely to beget children, not _more_.”

“I thought that myself,” Artë admitted. “I was quite taken aback at the question, and at how persistently so many of Celeborn’s kin continued to ask once we were wed. I wonder if my reticence isn’t part of what made Thingol behave as he did.”

“What?” Curufinwë demanded. “Because you are not yet with child after scarcely a year married, you do not truly love his nephew?”

“Something like that, I think,” she replied sadly, taking another drink.

“What a troll-brain! It’s a good thing his queen thinks more clearly!”

She snickered.

“You cannot come up with any better insult than troll-brain?”

“Shush. I am focusing on the problem at hand,” he informed her loftily. “Namely that my adorable little cousin is being treated poorly for being confused by a set of norms completely conflicting with those she grew up with. And rather backward!”

“I’m not precisely confused,” Artë shrugged. “Merely wondering if I had missed something about marriage. It is not as if my mother were here to advise me, after all.”

“Or your grandmothers,” he agreed. “But what about an aunt? You could ask Irimë.”

“Yes,” she said sardonically. “I could. If only I hadn’t run off almost at once with my disreputable cousin because everyone else at Mithrim was trying to smother me.”

He snorted.

“They’d have gotten over it once they’d had a reminder that you are Artanis.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked hopefully.

He thought about it.

“Probably not. With Irissë gone, you’re the only girl, even if you are grown and married now. Sorry.”

“Exactly,” she said emphatically, pointing at him with the bottle. “I didn’t want to deal with all that. Just like I didn’t want to deal with explaining to the Sindar that I don’t want to beget children with Morgoth’s shadow hanging over us.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, lifting his bottle in salute.

She clinked her bottle against his in something like a toast.

“I don’t think I could deal with the fear, raising a child in a world like this, where they could be killed or taken. Or where they might have to live without a parent because their parent was killed or taken. Do you know I barely know anyone in Doriath who has _not_ lost a family member?”

He was stupefied by the notion. His father’s mother was the only one either of them knew of who had ever died in Aman.

“What does Celeborn say to all this?” he asked.

Artanis grimaced.

“He does not agree with me, obviously,” she admitted. “But nor does he wish to fight about it. He thinks given time, I will feel the urge for a child. He is being _patient_.”

Her irritation with such transparent humoring of her odd foreign notions was plain.

“Hold your ground,” Curufinwë advised. “I’m a parent, and worse, I’m fool enough to have brought my son here. It is the single stupidest thing I have ever done. You are more right than you can possibly know about the fear.”

“What do you mean, Curvo?”

“You may think you know what it is like to fear for a child, but until you actually have one, it is only imagining. It is much… _more_ when it is no longer academic.”

She nodded pensively.

“That makes sense. I think.”

“You think?” he repeated, wondering if perhaps it was time to try to maneuver the bottle away from her. They’ve both been drinking fairly steadily, and _his_ bottle is at least half empty.

“I will only be able to be _certain_ whenever I do beget a child, however many yeni from now that may be.”

He laughed.

“To your hypothetical someday child.”

He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew perfectly well she’d hear his silent addendum: _May she or he be sufficiently Noldo to irritate the hell out of Thingol and Celeborn both._

They drank again.

“How is Tyelpë?” she asked next. “Since raising a child on the Hither Shores is no hypothetical for you?”

He took a long swig before he answered.

“I have already said to you that I am an idiot,” he told her. “That alone should tell you much. My son is growing up without peers his own age, for I grudged none of my followers sending their young ones back to safety, nor Tyelko either. Tyelpë also has not the freedom to roam as we did in our younger days – he must keep to the fortress for his own safety, and in winter, he may go weeks without being able to stir outside for bad weather. Nor can I take him with me when I travel, for I do not feel he is mature enough or skilled enough yet to deal with the dangers.”

She grimaced, clearly thinking that she herself would be unhappy in such a case.

“I have no choice but to teach him swordplay, and tactics, and how to defend himself and any people he may come to lead,” Curufinwë continued. “I would be far happier if I could simply mentor him in the forge, where his real talent lies, and where he is happy and truly desires to learn.”

“Another smith?” Artë asked with a smile.

“He will do great things,” Curufinwë assured her confidently. “Just you wait and see! But I’m determined to keep him away from the Oath as much as possible. He was only a child, he didn’t swear to anything – I believe he still has the freedom to make his own path, shadowed though it may be by his family, and I will not have that taken from him.”

“I am surprised to hear you say so,” she said pensively. “I thought you would be more dedicated than any to your Oath.”

He laughed grimly.

“I should be, shouldn’t I? Atarinkë!” He lifted his bottle sarcastically and tried not to snarl, covering it by taking a drink instead.

“I did not mean it so, Curvo,” she said soothingly. “And I don’t think your mother meant that you were your father with your name, either.”

They have had that conversation many times. Artë has always professed the firm belief that his mother had seen what a good father he would be, even when he was young. He has never been able to determine how much of that is simply stubborn loyalty from the little cousin most like himself.

“Not the point,” he said, waving his bottle irritably. “The Oath is unfulfillable. The Valar knew it. Uncle Ara knew it. Stinking cesspits of Angband, _you_ knew it. I bet Maitimo knew no good could come of it after Alqualondë. But we’re stuck for it, aren’t we? Atar even made us promise a second time, as if swearing by Manwë and Varda hadn’t been enough.”

Artanis’ eyes are full of sorrow, deep as the sea.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” he continued morosely. “The worst of it is that _Silmë_ knew it, before we ever left Tirion. She begged me to leave Tyelpë with her. When I said no to that, she asked that I leave her with another child, to make the absence and the missing more bearable.”

“You have another child?” Artanis whispered in shock. “Curvo, you never said-”

“No,” he said flatly. “I denied her that, too. She was _wise_ , and I was a blind idiot.”

He paused, frowning.

“No, that is not right either,” he corrected himself. “For the blind cannot help not seeing. I could have seen but chose not to, which is worse by far.”

 _Blind_ was another word that had been only a concept in Aman, but was a reality here. Several of his followers have lost their sight to wounds or burns. One lost an eye entirely.

“You think now that you were wrong?” Artë said quietly.

“As wrong as Atar,” he admitted. “It was pure selfishness on my part, me not wanting to miss my son growing up. I should have left Tyelpë where he would have been _safe_. He would have been known as a Kinslayer’s son in any case, but he would have been better off facing the wrath of the Lindar than orcs, trolls, valaraukar, and whatever other twisted creatures Morgoth has devised in his stinking cesspits. Failing that, I should have done as Silmë asked and begotten a child who would have grown up safe and loved and free of my taint.”

“You-”

“No, Artanis,” he growled. “I am not a cranky drunk, but even so I will not allow you trying to say that I am not tainted. We tell the truth, remember?”

She nodded unhappily. They are honest with each other, even when honesty is not pleasant. Let others reach for ‘tactful’ or ‘politic’ phrasings. They say what they mean, and they say what is. If anything, the fact that both of them were blurry from the wine by now should make it easier instead of harder.

Artanis flopped onto her back to lie flat.

“How did it all get to be such a mess, Curvo?”

He snorted.

“I could blame Morgoth,” he shrugged, “but that would be too easy. He certainly didn’t help, but we did quite a lot all on our own. Atar made his messes, I made mine-”

“And I made mine,” Artanis sighed. “Perhaps I should have been more Sindar about marriage and continued without binding for another yén or two. By then I might have better understood what I was letting myself in for.”

“Or you might have been cast out from Menegroth and never seen your Celeborn again,” Curufinwë pointed out. “Or he might have been killed. Or you might have been killed. Or any number of things. At least I’m blaming myself for stupid things I actually _did_.”

“Was marrying hastily not stupid?” she asked the ceiling of the tent.

Curufinwë regarded his own bottle suspiciously. How much had they had to drink?

“Not if you love him and believe he is the one for you,” he said firmly.

“Don’t want anyone else,” she said fuzzily. “Just don’t want a child. Not now. Not like _this_.”

“That’s it,” he declared, having thought it through. “You’ve had enough.”

“Have not!” she protested.

He knew perfectly well he was pleasantly cushioned by alcohol, but he was still coordinated enough to grab the bottle off of her, and discovered it was three-quarters gone.

Chalk up one more stupid decision in his column – he should have stopped her sooner.

“Have so,” he said firmly, invoking his older brother/cousin voice. “I’m going to get you some water, and I’m taking both bottles with me.”

He thought about it for a second before adding, “ _and_ the corkscrew.”

By the time he got back with a full waterskin, Artë was snoring.

He sighed, and turned her on to her side, propping her with a pillow. He had not forgotten Atto’s blistering tongue lashing about how incredibly lucky he and his brothers had been that Ingo hadn’t choked to death on his own vomit after that drinking contest – and that it would have happened if not for Maitimo.

Fëanaro had still been a responsible enough uncle at that time to also roust his hapless nephew painfully early the next morning to lecture Ingo along with his own sons about alcohol and the proper care of drunken elves too young and stupid to know when it was time to stop imbibing, and to warn what would befall any of them should they be so criminally irresponsible a second time. (Poor Ingo had been convinced that if the treelight didn’t split his aching head in two, Fëanaro’s voice would.)

He had no wish to explain to Ingo how he had been idiot enough to let Artë drink herself to death.

He put a cork in her bottle, in case she wanted to have the rest with dinner the next day, and after a long moment of thought, decided he should probably turn in himself and corked his own bottle as well.

Trying to find dry clothes in his pack proved too complicated for his muddled state, so he simply kicked off his still damp swimming costume and pulled a blanket over himself, making sure to turn his back to her just in case the blanket fell off in the middle of the night. (Though really, it was clear he was the only one who would find the situation embarrassing. If Artë could swim naked, he could sleep naked. There would be time enough to worry about getting dressed in the morning.)

With any luck, Artanis would not have a hangover when she woke, and would feel better for having talked about at least some of what was troubling her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to be quite busy for me for the next few weeks, so it's unlikely the next chapter will follow as quickly as this one did!


	9. Sweet Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said when I started this story that the warnings would be updated as appropriately as new chapters were posted.   
> This chapter ends in a rather unpleasant place. The following warning applies: Non-con.  
> If you need more information, there is no violence and nothing graphic. Proceed at your own risk.

Curufinwë knew perfectly well he was dreaming.

The Treelight gave it away. Had the Trees not been destroyed, he doubted his father could have succeeded in rousing him and his brothers to swear the Oath, much less persuading so many of the Noldor to follow him to Beleriand in pursuit of vengeance. But in the darkness, they had all been willing to listen to plans they would never have given any credence by the light of the Trees.

He had not fully appreciated the beauty of the Trees and their light while it was still part of his daily world.

Just as he had not appreciated-

“Husband, do you mean to ignore me all night as you contemplate Telperion’s wonders?”

He turned so quickly that, dream or no, it was a wonder he didn’t do himself an injury.

Tyelpesilmë’s beautiful face was amused.

“I shall take that as ‘no’, then?” she asked, her lovely smile turning a bit wicked – in the harmless way ‘wicked’ had once meant, in Aman, before it meant true evil.

“This is a dream,” he murmured.

“So logical and practical, even in your sleep,” she sighed.

“Not so practical I will not enjoy every second with you,” he replied, kissing her with the hunger of a starving man.

“You just said this was a dream,” she laughed, though the feel of her hands slipping beneath his nightshirt to caress his chest felt real enough.

“It is a _good_ dream. Perhaps it is a dream we share,” he suggested. “You on your side of the Sea, and I on mine.”

“Still a secret romantic,” she teased, nipping lightly at his ear.

“Don’t tell,” he mumbled, nuzzling her neck as he attempted to master his body enough not to embarrass himself, for he was as eager as a bridegroom on his wedding night after so long apart from her.

“Who would I tell?” she breathed, the last word practically a moan.

“Anyone. Everyone.”

Silmë’s laugh turned into a gasp of pure pleasure as his hands traced her body.

“As if I could! No one but Tyelko, Artanis, and your mother would believe me. And they probably already know anyway. Have you missed me?” she asked.

“More than words can say,” he said, abruptly leaving aside his exploration of her hröa to simply embrace her, savoring every gentle curve.

“Yet you would not stay when I asked you to,” she pointed out sadly.

He bowed his head to meet hers, and they lay together with their foreheads touching, as he let her feel his sorrow and regret.

“I was wrong,” he said quietly. “And if ever I am granted the grace to see you again with waking eyes, I will tell you so.”

“Curufinwë Atarinkë admitting he was wrong?” she asked in mock astonishment. “And without arguing the point first?”

“It is not the first time I have been wrong,” he pointed out. “Nor is it likely to be the last. Though I hope I am growing wiser with the years.”

“You are a good ner, if not always a wise one, Curvo,” Silmë assured him. “Your father never admits fault no matter how in the wrong he may be. Not even to your mother.”

He knew that. He’s seen it often enough – and seen how it had been slowly corroding his parents’ once unbreakable union.

“I am endeavoring to be a better man than he was – and a better father.”

He heard the catch of her breath, and steeled himself to continue.

“I was wrong in that, as well. I should have yielded to your wisdom and left our son in Aman. In _safety_. If I had it to do over again, I would not insist that Tyelperinquar come with me.”

“Is he safe?” she asked hesitantly. “Is he well?”

He could fear her fear in that minute, and hadn’t the heart to tell her that knowing Beleriand as he did, his easily outstripped hers. That at least he could spare her.

“As safe as I can keep him here,” Curufinwë assured her. “But he is not happy, and I must accept that his unhappiness is my doing. He is not living the life a boy his age should. And he misses you, and my mother, and your parents.”

Silmë’s eyes glistened with tears.

“Why do you tell me this?” she demanded. “Why could you not just accept the kindness of the dream as it was? We might have loved each other and both woken happier for it.”

“Because what I am saying is the truth, and I would not lie to you any more than I wish to lie to myself,” he replied. “And perhaps I am a fool, but if this truly _is_ a dream we share, it may be the only chance I have to tell you these things.”

He could not look her in the eye at that, for he did not want to have to put into words his fear of what his future held.

“You do not believe that you will ever return to me?” she asked, sounding heartbroken.

“I _hope_ I will,” is the best he can manage, because the idea of being sundered from her forever hurts too badly to contemplate.

“Why did you not agree to another child?” she said, and he could hear her trying to keep from crying. “Why did you leave me _alone_?”

“I was wrong in that also,” he whispered, wretchedly watching a single tear slip down her cheek despite her efforts. “Please forgive me.”

He brushed the tear away gently, almost hesitantly.

“I will forgive you,” she said quietly. “If you promise me we will have that child someday.”

“My love,” he said, wishing with all his heart that it was a promise he could make, “I would if I could. But I can have no confidence of keeping such a vow.”

“Please, Curufinwë? Would you refuse me again?”

She pressed her hröa against his, and his body responded with almost shameful eagerness. It might be a dream, but it felt so real…

“Here, like this, I can give you anything you would have of me, beloved,” he told her. “But I will make no promise that I do not know I can hold to, not even in a dream. It has been a hard-learnt lesson, but I have had my fill of thoughtless words and careless oaths.”

She kissed him with a desperation that matched his own.

“That will have to be enough then,” she whispered between kisses, as they both did their best to remove the clothing that separated them from each other.

If this is the only time he will ever hold his wife again, he will make it a night to remember.

Later, in the contented afterglow, Tyelpesilmë clung to him like she would never let go – as if the Valar themselves would not be able to command such a thing – and they spoke of the child they would not have.

“A daughter,” Curufinwë said thoughtfully. “A daughter with her mother’s smile, and clever hands, and above all, your wisdom.”

He realized as he said it that he would dearly love it to be true. He has no doubt that the daughter of two such talented craftspeople as him and his wife would follow him to the forge as quickly as her older brother had.

Silmë laughed.

“I would rather a son with his father’s eyes,” she told him, one hand tracing designs on his chest. “After all, this child is to remind me of you, my love. Your eyes, and expressions, and perhaps your inspiration. But I would have him somewhat more inclined to listen to good counsel.”

She poked his chest for emphasis, but he was not inclined to argue. Indeed, his only amendment to Silmë’s dream child, he thought privately, deep in his fëa would was that if the child had to have his eyes, he should also have Silmë’s lovely silver hair to go with them.

\---

Artanis was uncertain where in Doriath they were, but she knew it was Doriath. The trees, the birds, the air – all were signs she had been taught to read in her first few years in the Fenced Land. Not close to Menegroth, but not so far as she had journeyed of late.

She wasn’t inclined to question it – particularly not since Celeborn was there.

If Irmo wished to grant her this kindness, she would gratefully accept. Most of her dreams of late have not been nearly as pleasant. Even before Curvo had wanted to speak of the Ice and Ambarussa, the paths she walked in her sleep had been starless and frightening more often than not.

It had been all too easy, with her husband’s absence an unavoidable pain during the day and such darkness during the nights, to believe that Thingol had been confirming the judgement of the Valar themselves when he pronounced her unclean.

_Never enough, are you, Artanis? Too Noldo for the Lindar and the Sindar, too Lindar for the Noldor. Too girlish for a royal house that has no use for anything but sons, yet too strong and stubborn to be a proper princess, Nerwen._

The whispers had been relentless, and without Melian’s fortified borders or Celeborn’s calming presence to buffer her, she had little defense against them. She could only grit her teeth and endure.

It was not as if this was the first time she’s had to do that.

_Doomed. Bloodstained. Slayer of kin unrepentant. Too proud to admit your sins. No different than your uncle in the end._

Every whisper, ever rumor, every fear she’s ever had has haunted her since she left Doriath. Even suspecting that her tormented sleep was the work of the Enemy did not help, for what good was it to know the source if she could do nothing to stop it?

_You will never see your parents again. You will linger here, watching your family die, until at last it is your turn, choking on your pride and drowning in your own blood._

After nights of that, she was only too glad for a night of simple forest and Celeborn. Indeed, she wanted little more even in her waking hours. Even if this dream turned out to be merely one more trick, she will take the respite. And it is just possible that Irmo might have taken pity on her. The Lord of Dreams may be brother to the Doomsman who exiled her, but he is also the brother of Mercy.

“I have missed you,” Celeborn whispered in her ear.

It was easy for him to do, seeing as his mouth was mainly occupied in teasing the sensitive tips of her ears.

“Whose fault is that?” she asked archly, doing her best not to moan aloud. 

“Certainly not _mine_ ,” he replied, his clever hands as busy as his tongue. “You have a very bad temper, beloved.”

She meant to scoff, but as his hands moved teasingly over her body, that became impossible.  Her breath escaped in a sharp exhalation that prevented coherent speech.

“I am not the only one,” she told him shakily, once she was able to manage words again.

“No doubt,” he agreed, his lips tracing across her neck and onto her chest as she turned to face him. “But I really would rather not think on my _uncle_ just now…”

She did not particularly want to think of him either, not when Celeborn had continued his downward trajectory. In fact, talking, and even thinking was vastly overrated in such a position.

It was only later, as they lay sated and content with each other, curled happily against his chest, that she attempted to pick up the conversation again. Not about tempers and Thingol, though.

“How is it you are finally with me, if only in my dreams?” she asked, deliberately calling to mind the last time she’d slept by the pools of Ivrin- also, as it happened, the first time they’d joined their hröar.

She did not doubt for a moment that it was Celeborn she touched, with her in spirit as he could not be in person. She could feel him, and was calmer for his presence. This was the first time it had happened since she crossed the borders of Melian’s power.

He smiled drowsily against her hair. She knew he was doing it, even though she could not see it. She poked him.

“Do not you dare fall asleep on me!” she told him sternly. “I have missed you long enough.”

She felt his laughter, rumbling through his chest, as much as she heard it.

“We _are_ asleep, golden heart,” he told her. “Else I would not be able to speak to you. You know I haven’t your way with osanwë.”

That last was said in a tone of disappointment that as good as admitted he’d tried and failed to touch her mind in their waking hours.

She hugged him, unwilling to have him linger on things he could not do when there were so many more things he could.

Curufinwë had not been the only one surprised that after so many nobles and princes who would have willingly married her in the Blessed Land, she had chosen a mere minor prince of the Sindar.  Celeborn’s people were rather proud of the match – or had been, before they knew of her bloodstained hands and murderous kin –  whereas hers will no doubt scrutinize her husband even more sharply than they would any other moriquendi, suspecting him to be unworthy of her.

It’s none of their business that she often feels like it’s the other way around. (Though it will absolutely be her business if any of her people dare run him down. She rather suspects they will not be foolish enough to do so in her hearing.)

“As to how I am with you, I am outside the Girdle, so what was impossible before is not now.”

She traced the contour of his chest, her fingers lingering on the spot she adored in the hollow between his pectorals.

“Did you wish to hear this?” Celeborn asked her. “Because that is rather distracting…”

“Tell me, and then I’ll decide how much I should distract you,” she suggested, not stopping entirely.

“I met Oropher and Belthil. They were returning from their errand to your uncle and were able to tell me that if I sought my heart, it was no longer to be found in Barad Eithel, and suggested I should turn my feet instead toward your brother’s halls.”

She smiled.

Celeborn had lost his parents to the Shadow long before she had met him. His cousins had done their best to stand in the place of siblings for him – Oropher as an older brother, Belthil a younger. Merelin and Nimloth were as much his younger sisters as Oropher and Belthil’s.

She too had been coming to look on them as family since her marriage. For the pair of them to have told Celeborn where to find her meant that they, at least, found her sins forgivable. She took heart from that.

“They continued homeward,” Celeborn told her. “While I adjusted my path to meet you as soon as may be. I shall leave them to take up the burden of talking sense into the king.”

She did not need to ask if Thingol had relented. For him to speak so meant he had not.

“Be easy, my love,” Celeborn said, his arms tightening reassuringly around her. “If there is wisdom in my great-uncle’s course, few other than himself see it. And we have not been shy about telling him so.  Loathe though our people may be to deal with Kinslayers, still less would we condemn those who have done no wrong. It is known that there are those among your people who shed no blood. From what Oropher says, they are now as angry with Thingol as he was with you.”

“That I knew already,” she told him drily, letting him see and feel the fury that had seethed behind the polite façade of the court. “Is Oropher’s heart more at ease now that he has seen for himself that Merelin is not being mistreated?”

“Surely you do not hold his anxiousness against him?” Celeborn asked. “She is the first of us to beget a child. He worries for them both, and that was _before_ he knew her husband’s people to be in an uproar.”

“Artaresto has been as protective of her as you would be of me in such a position,” Galadriel assured him. “Besides which, she carries a princess of the Noldor. No one would allow her to come to harm, my uncle least of all.”

She caught the not-quite-concealed thought that flitted through Celeborn’s fëa at her words, a product of a longing he could not suppress.

“As to the begetting of children, we can speak of that some other time,” she said firmly. “I have not said _never_ , only _not now_.”

Inspired by her talk with Curufinwë, she let herself be open with him, as she has not been before – she let him see how she did not know how under the stars Merelin and Artaresto did not go crazy from the worry of bringing a child into a world where they live so close to the threat of the Enemy. She remembered Arakano’s death all too well, and what it had done to her uncle. Strong as she may be, she knows she is _not_ strong enough to see a child of hers die.

And it was clearly the right thing to have done, because she can feel his relief. Her worry, even her fear, he could understand. Celeborn pulled her to him, to soothe her worries and fears the best way he knew how.

\---

Curufinwë wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had startled him out of his slumber – only that he was abruptly and irreversibly awake. He frowned, trying to work out what was not right. His arm tightened around the warm body nestled against his own.

That was when reality reasserted itself in the harshest possible manner, driving away the lingering remnants of the peace and contentment he’d felt in his dream.

He sat up, realizing in horror that the woman he was curled up to, with both of them very naked and smelling of sex was _not_ his beloved Tyelpesilmë.

It was Artanis.


	10. The Harsh Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised when this started that I would give adequate warning on chapters, so here goes:  
>  **Warning: non-con/rape**  
>  I can't be any blunter than that. I've done my best to not make it graphic, particularly since I didn't enjoy writing that part.  
> If you want to skip just the part the warning applies to and read the rest of the chapter, search for "Curufinwë", that should take you to the very beginning of the rest. If you want to skip this chapter altogether, it should be up soon, because this is the one I've been avoiding writing - the worst part is over.

Galadriel snuggled happily into her husband. Would that this were real, rather than just a dream – her honesty had cleared the air between them, and they were closer than ever, no matter the distance between their physical bodies.

“I wish we could freeze this moment,” she whispered. “Just live in it forever.”

“Just you and I among the trees?” Celeborn asked, his amused voice reaching her ears more through his chest than from his mouth.

“Mmm,” she agreed, liking the notion more as she thought about it. “Just us. Not our peoples or our families complicating everything.”

He laughed.

“Beloved, you would be bored silly in a month at most if we were the only two people in the world.”

“I would not,” she protested. “There would be no Morgoth either. We would be free to wander where we would.”

“Very well, in that case I give it a year,” Celeborn chuckled, tightening his embrace as she swatted at him in mock irritation. “You, my lady of light, would not know what to do with so little society as just me. You are too fond of having people around. And we would both of us miss our kin, bothersome as they may be at times.”

She huffed in irritation, but Celeborn knew perfectly well how to distract her, kissing just the right spot on her neck to render her boneless.

“My love,” he said tentatively, “in this hypothetical world, where it would be just you and I, without meddling relatives or the threat in the North, would there be a chance of bringing a child of our own into the world? Not necessarily _now_ , but _soon_?”

After her honesty earlier, he did not attempt to hide from her how greatly he wished they might bring a child into the world without too great a gap between him or her and Orodreth and Merelin’s daughter. Kin was very important to the Sindar – not that it was unimportant to the Amanyar, but he felt her people did not fully value what they had. Their families were immune from loss in a way his people have never been.

His voice was so wistful that she couldn’t help but wrap him in her love, and voice the reassurance he needed that were it not for that threat, she would surely be less reluctant to beget children soon, if perhaps still somewhat less eager for parenthood than he seemed to be.

“By the lights of my people,” she told him, “it is more usual to wait some years before begetting the first child – to be sure that the bond between the parents is strong, and their union solid, before bringing a child into it.”

She could feel Celeborn turning that notion over in his mind, the idea that a couple might take their time as new to him as the idea of begetting children immediately had been to her.

“Then,” he said seriously, his forehead touching hers, “I will not press you further on the subject. In the meantime, as living in this moment forever is sadly impractical, I suppose we shall just have to defeat Belegurth and his foul beasts. For I very much desire to meet a son or daughter of ours, and you will never feel safe enough to bring a child into the light while the Dark One holds sway in the north.”

He said it so matter of factly, so straightforwardly, that it sounded reasonable in a way her half-uncle’s promises never had. Galadriel had never loved her husband more than she did in that moment, for making her believe it was truly possible. Something fluttered in her chest, and she wondered if this was what _hope_ felt like.

She kissed him and smirked at his response.

“Though we beget no children, it cannot hurt to practice the motions,” he murmured playfully.

They were wrapped together, Celeborn deep within her, when she felt something _change._

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but everything suddenly felt wrong, from Celeborn’s touch to the cool night air. Even the trees surrounding them no longer seemed friendly.

“Celeborn. Celeborn, stop,” she said urgently, putting a hand on to his chest, surprised that he could not feel it also. Normally he was far more attuned to their surroundings than she was. “Something is not right.”

For the first time ever, he did not heed her words. He continued as though he had not heard her at all.

“Celeborn, stop!”

It was no longer a request, but an order – one that was ignored.

“No, Artanis, I do not intend to stop,” he snarled harshly.

For a moment she was shocked beyond words or action. Then she attempted to push him off of her– and failed. It had never occurred to her to think of the differences between them before, but her husband was taller and broader than she was, and the difference in their body masses was nearly all muscle on his part.  Not that that should matter in a _dream_ , she thought irritably.

His thrusts were stronger now, rough to the point of painful.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded in shocked incomprehension, hurt more by his indifference than anything else.

That was when she saw it – the malicious gleam in his eye, a flash of red. And she realized that he had called her _Artanis_. Celeborn had not used her father-name when it was just the two of them since the day after they’d met, when he’d confessed to her the name he had given her in his mind when first he’d seen her. Since then, the only time she has heard him say _Artanis_ was if he spoke to her kin.

“Who or what are you?” she demanded angrily, renewing her efforts to free herself, but also slamming up every mental defense she’d ever been taught, whether in Aman or Doriath.

“Don’t you know me, Princess?” the thing wearing her husband’s form taunted. There was more than just a gleam of red in his eyes now. “I certainly know _you_ – your pride, your arrogance. So sure of yourself you never once considered how vulnerable you are – and how much more vulnerable you could be.”

He finished with a grunt, and an expression of smug satisfaction she was tempted to claw right off his face, if she could but bring herself to do harm to something that looked so like her beloved.

_Just do it, Galadriel!_ she commanded herself. _That is not Celeborn! You_ know _it is not!_

Her opponent laughed at her hesitation, and then his expression turned to triumph, as she felt something spark within her that horrified her beyond words.

_It is only a dream!_

“Congratulations on achieving motherhood, Artanis Nerwen,” ‘Celeborn’ sneered. “I suspect your wood elf may be somewhat less than pleased. I’m sure he thought your first child would be his. Nevertheless, I’m confident this child will be a credit to his father. _Admirable_ , one might even say.  I shall watch your offspring with interest.”

The mocking word was enough to give her the clue.

“Get out of my dreams, Gorthaur,” she snarled. “You may think you know me, but you know very little if you think to intimidate me thus. It takes more than an unpleasant dream to frighten a grandchild of Finwë and Olwë.”

He laughed, and the sound was as terrible as anything she’d ever heard.

“Brave words, little girl. What do you think your grandfathers will say when they hear of your shame? Or your parents? Just imagine the look on your poor Atto’s face when he finds out…”

_Wake up, Galadriel! WAKE UP!_

“Yes, Arafinwiel, do. After all, this is but an unpleasant dream, everything will surely be better when you wake!”

His triumphant smile lingered before her eyes as she dragged herself out of the dream by sheer force of will.

\---

Curufinwë had been waiting nervously for Artanis to awaken for some time already when she abruptly bolted upright.

She looked horror struck, and her chest was heaving as if she had just been running – or fighting. Neither boded well.

“Artë?” he asked cautiously.

Her hand went at once to her lower abdomen – and to his own horror, he realized at once why.

_No,_ he told himself. _No. It could_ not _be._

Begetting a child took intention on the part of the parents. It was _never_ an accident. Most especially not when one was in such a drunken stupor as to be unknowingly rutting with one’s married younger cousin!

She looked at him, her horror only growing.

“Curvo!” she wailed.

“I swear I did not intend it,” he began, only to stop short at the wholly unexpected relief in her eyes.

“It is _yours_?” she demanded, sounding much as though she _wanted_ that to be the case.

At his shame-faced nod, her shoulders sagged and some of the tension left her frame.

“Oh, thank Eru,” she whispered. “Nienna, lady of mercy, thank you.”

Curufinwë paused, rather confused himself.

While on the one hand, this was going much better than he had expected – astonishingly, all his body parts were still intact and Artanis showed no signs of planning to alter that arrangement – he was rather stunned that her finding out he had gotten a child on her was somehow a cause for _thanks_.

“Whose did you suppose it was?” he asked in befuddlement.

There were only the two of them there, after all, so it should have been an obvious conclusion…

She shuddered.

“Gorthaur’s,” she replied quietly.

He recognized the name – it was what the Sindar called the maia who had once been known as Mairon, a follower of Aulë. Corrupted by Morgoth into something nearly as terrible as himself, the Noldor now called him Sauron, though aside from Nelyo they had little direct knowledge of him.

The Sindar were not nearly so fortunate.

He wasn’t sure how she had come to such a conclusion – though that she seemed to think it reasonable put the events of the previous few hours in a very different light.

_To evil end shall all things turn… I thank you most humbly, my lord Namo, for this lesson. You might have left Artanis out of it, however!_

“In that case, I can see where the child being mine would be a relief,” he said weakly.

That was as far as he got before she leaped out of the tent to retch, then burst into tears – probably a sign that now that bearing the spawn of Sauron had been ruled out, the impossible position she still found herself was beginning to sink in.

He was her first cousin, and they were both married to other people.

Curufinwë could think of no explanation of their current situation adequate for either their people or her husband’s. Certainly not for their family. And likely not for her husband either. Silmë at least was on the far side of Alatairë, and the prospect that he might ever face her to confess his sin so faint as to be laughable – not that the conversation would be any less painful should the chance ever arise to have it.

He could not imagine that his amazing wife would not be horrified by the idea of him begetting a child with any other nis, let alone with his youngest cousin. Nor was it as if Silmë did not already have more than enough reason to appeal to the Valar to release her from their bond, assuming such a thing was even possible.

_You have ever said she is as a sister to you!_

He gulped, feeling a bit nauseous himself, and tried to bear in mind that this was still better than expected. Artanis was not calling down curses on him, or fleeing, or threatening violence. She was just… falling apart.

That was terrifying – not only was his youngest cousin normally steady and unflappable, usually new parents would at this time be ecstatically welcoming their newly begotten child’s fëa in an atmosphere of love, joy, anticipation, and wonder.

Besides his concern for his cousin, there was also another he had to worry about now, one who was a complete innocent in every sense of the word. What a child so young would understand of the emotional storm its parents were experiencing, he had no idea – but he couldn’t imagine it would be comfortable for the little one, or healthy.

He reached for Artanis tentatively, uncertain of her reaction, but hoping his touch might still be a comfort and not a fresh source of horror or disgust to her.

She wilted into him when he put his arm around her, sobbing in a mixture of Quenya, Telerin, and Sindarin that wasn’t particularly intelligible – but then, it didn’t need to be. He knew fairly well what she was feeling, aside from the part where it was not _him_ that would be required to shelter and nourish the child in his own hröa over the next year.

He drew her back into the tent and wrapped her in her blanket, cradling her in his lap as he had done when she was but a child herself, rocking her as though she were young again. He stroked her hair with one hand, while the other went to her belly, trying to reach and reassure the now frightened child that all was well with its mother.

It was a boy, he noted, and was not sure if he was more relieved to find the child apparently healthy and normal despite the circumstances of his begetting, or disappointed not to have a daughter.

_Ammë will be fine, my son, she is but surprised, for you are a blessing unlooked for._

“Can _hear_ you,” Artë mumbled through her sobs.

“Can you?” he asked softly, electing not to point out to her that while the first and third word had been Quenya, the middle one had been Telerin. (Though he did not think she’d meant to mix her languages, it was still appropriate, for the word in question referred to osanwë rather than spoken words.)

“Good, then tell your son yourself that you are well. He’s rather distressed.”

He was immensely relieved that she was able to calm herself sufficiently to reach out to the child with a tremulous welcome of her own, even if he privately suspected she would go back to weeping again at the first chance.

Between the two of them putting forth the effort to project the emotions new parents should have felt at such a moment, they managed to lull the child into the dreamy state in which the unborn spent most of their time for the first six months of their lives, more sleeping than waking as their hroä formed and knit itself to their fëa.

Only then could he turn his full attention back to Artanis.

There were still tears in her eyes, and they were certainly not tears of joy.

“What now?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“First, perhaps you might explain how in Arda you concluded you were carrying Sauron’s offspring,” he suggested.

He knew perfectly well what _he_ had dreamed, but he wanted to know what exactly had happened from her view.

She swallowed hard, but managed to recount in a low voice what she had experienced – thankfully, without going into overly much detail about the physical aspects of it. It was a relief to know that she had believed herself with her husband just as he had thought he was with Silmë.

He sighed when she reached the part about the betrayal, and ‘Celeborn’s’ eyes turning red and malicious. He understood now why Sauron was so abhorred by the Sindar if he could so easily delve into Artanis’ mind to turn her deepest fears into weapons to wield against her.

But there had been more than just passing malice in this, he suspected. The dream itself would have been bad enough, but by tricking the pair of them into begetting a child, the one who had once been called Mairon likely hoped to bring about still more strife, both among the Noldor as well as between the Noldor and the Sindar.

_Treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason…_

It could _not_ be allowed to happen. That much Curufinwë knew. Much more was at stake here than merely Artanis’ reputation. (His own reputation was already of so little worth on both sides of the Sea that he discounted it entirely. All personal damage worth speaking of would be to _her_.)

“You are certain the child is yours?” she asked, for the second time.

“Absolutely,” Curufinwë replied drily. “Having done something similar before, I do recall what begetting a child feels like, even when a malicious maia is twisting both my dreams and my hroä against me.”

She nodded, still looking less than certain.

He hissed in exasperation.

“Artanis, you inherited more from Indis than any other of her grandchildren. _You_ do not need to ask _me_ whose child it is – you should know better than I!”

She laid a cautious hand on her belly, almost as if it were a foreign body, before concentrating. He was relieved to see something more sure finally come into her expression.

“Yours.”

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

The glare that came his way did more than anything else to assure him that she was beginning to feel like herself for the first time that day.

“And now?” she asked nervously.

“We bathe, and eat,” he said simply. “Then sleep. True sleep, not whatever that was we experienced last night. And we take it in turns from now on. If Sauron’s influence could reach this far, his creatures could as well. We were thoughtless fools, and should count ourselves lucky the consequences were no worse.”

He was unsurprised that she looked daggers at him.

“No worse?” she demanded. “You speak as though this were no great matter!”

He sighed.

“It is true that it is not nothing. But a child is hardly in the same class as being dragged bodily to Angband or cut to pieces by orcs.”

His oldest brother was testament to that, but he wasn’t about to bring that up to Artanis as shaken as she already was. It would help her not at all to know that no matter how confident or strong he might appear by day, there were still nights Nelyo awoke screaming. And Curufinwë has observed his brother closely enough to fear that those may not be the worst of his terrors.

“It may yet be the ruin of us both,” she pointed out. “Yet you say ‘bathe, and eat’ as though nothing has happened!”

“What do you expect me to say?” he asked with a shrug. “Running wildly about will help nothing. We are not yet ruined – or at least, you are not ruined, and I am no more ruined now than I was this time yesterday. I may be able to think our way out of this, but I won’t be much good hungover, exhausted, and inches away from shock. The fright you’ve just had puts you no better off. And no matter how little you may like it, _you_ in particular need to eat and rest.”

For a split second, he was intensely glad it was only Artanis there, because if Irissë had been anywhere near, there would most certainly have been violence. But it was no longer just about her, and much as he might otherwise indulge her, he would not allow her to lose sight of what was needful for their child.

Though it would probably help if at some point he were able to stop wincing every time he thought of it as _their_ child.


	11. Picking Up The Pieces

Galadriel waited until the sounds from outside the tent proved that Curvo was busying himself elsewhere in the campsite – he had moved his things out into the sun, and from what she could hear was washing both his bedding and himself in the nearest pool – before she sank onto her own bedding, hugging her knees to her chest. She managed to bite back the sobs, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

This was not how she had expected her life in Beleriand to go, any of it.

Findaráto thought she would be safe and even happy in Doriath, and she had been – until their great-uncle had heard the whispers of what the Noldor had done to his brother’s people and reacted as if _he_ was the only injured party, as if she hadn’t seen her uncle killed and been taken prisoner on her grandfather’s stolen ship.

She’d reached Beleriand having learnt that to lead meant to feel every last drop of your people’s pain and your own powerlessness. Both sides of her family distrusted her, because she’s still not clearly enough their own for any of them. Too Telerin for the Noldor, too Noldor for the Sindar, and as far as she’s walked since, all either side can see is blood on her hands. (For all that, she’d do exactly the same again if she had to.)

Her marriage was a mess with her and her husband separated, she’s pregnant with a child that is not her husband’s, and she’s an ocean away from the one person she wants more than any other right now – her mother. No matter how disappointed and horrified Atto might be, Emmë would understand. She’d hold her daughter and sing and somehow Galadriel would feel better. Emmë _always_ made it better.

It’s terrifying. _She’s_ someone’s mother now. Her son is tiny and helpless and utterly dependent on her for the next year, and after that, when he comes into the light, she will be the one he looks for protection and food and comfort and to make everything right even when nothing is. She’s _not ready_ for that, and she wouldn’t be even if it was Celeborn’s son she carried instead of her cousin’s.

And that’s another form of betrayal, the Doom closing its jaws on her as surely as on her cousins.

She knows and loves her cousin’s wife Tyelpesilmë.  Artanis had laughed at Curvo’s wedding and proclaimed how good it was to have another girl in a sprawling family of boys – another _sister_ , she had qualified later, in private. Irissë was her age, but Silmë had become the older sister they lacked, the confidant who could explain things their brothers and cousins wouldn’t or couldn’t. (Even Curvo, who would answer just about anything, drew the line at advising her about interpersonal relations between nissi and neri – particularly when it clearly wasn’t abstract and hypothetical. He was no happier than any other in the family about the idea of ‘the babies’ growing up.)  

What would Silmë say if she knew?

Galadriel rocked herself back and forth silently, doing her best to keep her distress concealed. Not only would it only alarm those who love her – her husband, her son, and her cousin, though possibly not in that order- it was plain now that Gorthaur had some way of spying on her, and she will _not_ give him the satisfaction. She has been twitted more than once by her cousins and older brothers about thinking herself the equal of any of them – now was the time to prove it if she is. _Nerwen._ _Whatever you had in mind when you named me, Emmë, I dearly hope it wasn’t this._

Oh, Valar. She was going to have to _name_ her child.

She hugged herself tighter, cold despite the warm morning. She would go crazy if she thought about all she was going to have to do – much less the thought that she may well have to do it alone. Celeborn may want nothing more to do with her. She has told him more than once it was too soon to think of begetting children, and here she is carrying a child that has nothing to do with him.

Her brothers are going to be furious, and probably blame it all on Curvo. It may well fracture the princes of the Noldor all over again, just when everyone was beginning to mend their quarrels. Aiko had finally stopped throwing Moryo’s letters in the fire. She’d managed to let go her anger at Tyelko – was it only last night she’d intended to send him a peace offering?

At least she can be reasonably sure he won’t use this to hurt her. He loved his brother too well for that, and he’s always been fond of children. But she would melt right into the ground now if it would let her avoid having to look Maitimo in the eye, or confessing to Ambarussa.

As for what her great-uncle will say…

She felt a wave of nausea at the thought, not only of what Thingol would say – and do, for if he would sunder her from Celeborn for being a sullied Kinslayer, she can only imagine what fresh punishment _this_ will bring forth – but what the opinion of the Iathrim would be when it became public, as it inevitably would.

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

\---

Curufinwë finally made himself stop bathing when he realized how ridiculous he was being. It didn’t matter how long he scrubbed, it wasn’t going to change anything. He was _still_ going to be the father of Artanis’ child. Sauron had violated him no less than his cousin, his only luck was that he would not have to live quite as intimately with that violation for the coming months.

He realized that Artanis was not sleeping, but reluctantly decided that she would have to find some semblance of emotional balance on her own – had she thought his presence would be helpful, she would have asked for it. (More like demanded it.) He would only intrude if the child was roused.

Nevertheless, he was relieved to hear her eventually sing herself to sleep, Telerin lullabies by the sound of it. He peeked in when it had been quiet for a quarter of an hour, and tucked her blanket around her, tucking her in like the small child she’d been when life was simpler.

While Artë slept, he kept himself busy thinking. Oh, he was also doing mundane chores like hanging his bedding to dry, drawing water for drinking and cooking, gathering wood for the fire, and all the other little tasks that were part of keeping a campsite a comfortable place as well. But mostly he was thinking.

His first order of business was to evaluate the current situation of their chosen site and take stock of their supplies, for they would have to stay there at least until Artanis’ Sindarin mate reached them, which he guessed would be a week at the very least.

He had realized fairly quickly that much would depend on the reaction of Artanis’ husband. He hated the idea that his little cousin’s fate rested so wholly in the hands of a ner he had never even met, but there was no way around it.

If this Celeborn were unwilling to help them conceal Artanis’ condition, there would be nothing for it. If that proved to be the case, he might as well take her with him to Himlad at once. That would be the best protection he could give her, for none there would dare speak against her, not even his brother.

No matter what his private thoughts, Tyelko would bite his tongue for the sake of the children – both Tyelpë and the yet unnamed little one. And maybe even for Artanis herself. Fighting amongst themselves was one thing, but _this_ would mean it was time to put aside their private quarrels to close ranks, family against everyone else.

And there would be many to put in that category. Nelyo would be furious with him, for if this scandal became public, it would surely mean the permanent end of any hope that the King of Doriath might relent and become more of an ally than a mere breakwater against the Enemy. It could well turn the Falathrim against them as well, not to mention those few Sindar who did not look to Doriath and the scattering of Laiquendi willing to trade with them.

If, on the other hand, Celeborn desired as heartily as Curufinwë to hide what had happened to his wife, then they would have to decide how best to proceed. Both Nargothrond and Doriath were out of the question – as, unfortunately, were all the strongholds of the Noldor, he realized. A few moments thought showed him that what was true for Noldorin strongholds would be equally true for those of the Sindar.

Artanis was _not_ going to like his conclusions.

He didn’t much like them himself.

He kept his mind occupied calculating distances and probabilities until it occurred to him that he should probably begin preparing a meal, for he had no doubt it would be needed.

When Artanis finally woke again mid-afternoon, he had a hearty stew bubbling over the fire, and a rustic bread he remembered her being fond of on childhood camping trips to go with it. It was hardly the sort of pampering a new mother should by rights expect, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He’d try to improve tomorrow.

Artë took the full bread bowl he passed her with a doubtful expression, but to his relief did not argue. He did not want to have to explain to her that yes, she would definitely eat every bit of it – not only had she not eaten properly since the evening meal yesterday, her reaction this morning would have been draining to anyone.

He waited until she had eaten most of it, working his way silently through a bowl of his own, before he spoke.

“How long will it take your Celeborn to reach this place?”

She looked at him in astonishment, startled by the question.

“You cannot mean you want to _tell_ him?” she spluttered.

“Want?” Curufinwë asked sardonically. “Not particularly. Need? Most definitely. There is no way you can hope to hide this from him, Artë. Even were you to keep your distance from him for several years, I assure you he would notice the changes in your body whenever you next were intimate.”

The undisguised horror in her eyes reminded Curufinwë forcefully that she’d likely never had any of the explanations nissi normally heard from mothers, aunts, or older sisters about what to expect when bearing a child. She and Irissë had been the youngest of their generation, and unmarried when they parted from their mothers. And though both were aunts, as unwed nissi, they would not have been privy to the details of their law-sisters’ pregnancies – that would have been inappropriate by the mores of Tirion. It was also a bit late for her to learn anything from her nephew’s wife.

“I do not mean that you will be so altered,” he explained hastily. “Worry not on that score!”

He hesitated, then decided that given how much else they were going to have to be honest about, it was foolish to be embarrassed about this.

“Silmë’s body, once she weaned Tyelpë, was not so different than before his begetting, and I found her as lovely and…”

“Attractive?” Artë suggested drily, clearly trying to spare him the search for a word for what he meant that would not appall her grandmother. Or possibly her…

“Exactly!” he agreed in relief. “As attractive as ever. But as a husband, even had I not known that she had borne my child, there were slight differences. Your husband, who knows you intimately, would notice. And while I do not imagine he will be pleased by this pregnancy, I think he would be still less pleased at such a breach of trust as attempting to conceal it from him.”

He watched Artanis turn slightly green for the second time that day.

“I do not mean that you should tell him _right now_ ,” Curufinwë sighed. “It would probably be best face to face.”

“You mean to stay until he arrives?” she gasped.

“Obviously,” he told her. “Do you think me such an orc as to run away to leave you to face whatever may come? I will be right there with you, even if it turns out that your husband beats me black and blue for it.”

In all honesty, he expects that at the _least_. He’s tried putting himself in the Sinda’s boots, and come to the grim conclusion that if some good for nothing interloping cousin had gotten a child on his Tyelpesilmë, only the worry of how she would take it would prevent another kinslaying. (Alcohol was a poor excuse, and he wouldn’t believe anyone blaming it on Sauron.)

“So how long should we expect to wait here?” Curufinwë asked again.

Artanis chewed her lip uncertainly.

“I am not sure,” she said. “I do not know where exactly he is, only that his cousins had told him I was no longer in Mithrim, and so he had better look for me with Ingo.”

He sighed.

“Artanis, if you try to tell me that you cannot _ask him_ from here, I will make sure the entire family find out whose idea it was for you and Irissë to attend that revel in Oromë’s woods.”

Her eyes widened.

“Including Tyelko?” she asked in horror, too startled to even attempt a denial.

“ _Especially_ Tyelko,” he promised with a smirk.

Her face turned a shade of red that would have done Carnistir proud, but her eyes took on the somewhat distracted look he had long since learned was a hallmark of her speaking to someone at a distance.

He waited patiently, unsurprised that it was not a quick answer, for Celeborn probably no more knew where exactly Artanis was than she knew his precise location.

Some minutes later, she frowned.

“Ten days to two weeks,” she announced. “Depending on weather and other bothers.”

He presumed ‘other bothers’ covered everything from rivers running higher than usual to maurading orcs.

“Will that be all right?” she asked worriedly. “Should we go to meet him? It could halve the time.”

Curufinwë shook his head.

“We are better off remaining where we are. This is not only a wholesome place, it is sheltered, defensible, and well away from anywhere Thingol’s folk might spot us. It should seem perfectly natural to anyone who might observe Celeborn’s journey that he goes in search of you, and equally natural that we should await him, as if you had perhaps agreed to meet here.”

If Artanis thought otherwise, she chose not to argue.


	12. Truth and Consequences

In the end, it was closer to ten days than fourteen.

Curufinwë wasn’t overly surprised. He could imagine that there had been more than enough in that conversation to concern Artanis’ husband and drive him to make haste.

She had been somewhat calmer the last few days, which he suspected had more to do with the increasing proximity to her mate than any measure of resignation to their joint predicament.

It was the eleventh day since the begetting of their son – the fifth since he’d reconciled himself to the concept sufficiently not to wince any longer – that he spotted another elf approaching from southeast.

Artanis, he was thankful to discover, was still deeply enough asleep not to be consciously aware of his presence.

Curufinwë elected to meet the other ner far enough away from their little camp that Artë would not hear anything that was said. He was resolved that if Celeborn did decide to beat him, he would take it in silence, seeing as it would be no more than he deserved. If there was blame to be apportioned, he deserved the lion’s share as both the older kinsman and the one who had more experience of Beleriand, not having been safely ensconced behind the maia queen’s protection for the past several decades.

The silver-haired elf had come on foot, and while he carried a pack, it was not as prominent as the bow and matched knives. Curufinwë might have wondered that the Sinda had no sword, except that for a journey in the wild, the knives were doubtless more practical than a sword would be.

The newcomer slowed, closing the distance between them with caution that Curufinwë might have deemed insulting as recently as two weeks ago.

“Hail, stranger,” the Sinda called when he at last drew near enough not to shout.

“Well met, kinsman,” Curufinwë replied in his best Sindarin, certain by the look of the other that this must be Celeborn.

He could nearly have been a brother to the two who had been sent as ambassadors to Mithrim.

A single silver brow went up, surprised to be hailed as such by one who was clearly an Exile.

“Kinsman?” he asked. “I am speaking to one of the princes of the golodhrim?”

Curufinwë kept his face pleasant, though he liked that name no more than any of his folk did. If they could fuss so much about how their own names were rendered, they could certainly give his people their preferred appellation.

“Indeed. I am Curufinwë Fëanorion,” he introduced himself. “I have been traveling with my young cousin Artanis Arafinwiel who tells me her husband has named her Galadriel and she would answer to that now.”

Had they been meeting under other circumstances – as they ought to have –  the smile that broke out on Celeborn’s face at those words would have been most heartening.

“Well met, indeed, kinsman Curufin,” he replied. “I am Celeborn Galadhonion, and sorry am I that you could not be present at our wedding feast, for of her many cousins, I believe Galadriel has missed only Ireth more.”

He was now near enough that they could clasp forearms in the Sindarin fashion – something Finderato had written was a way of ensuring that the one you met was not about to draw a weapon. Curufinwë thought the gesture would be more practical if it involved both arms. While most elves preferred their right hand, it was far from universal. And his oldest brother was testament to the fact that with will and practice, one could become just as adept at the use of the left.

“Not as sorry as I was to have missed that feast,” he told Celeborn. “And I am sure Irissë will rue her absence still more when she hears of it.”

_If she hears of it – who knows what news reaches Turvo these days. But if the news does come to her, she’ll plague her brother no end for making her miss the occasion._

“Many believed our little Artë would never marry. It was the wonder of Mithrim when she arrived wearing a wedding ring, and my brothers may well think the news a bad joke on my part, so accustomed are they to thinking of her as unattached.”

Celeborn laughed.

“That I can well imagine, for it was her independence of mind that first caught my attention. Such strength of character is not unheard of in our women, but it seemed more… unusual among yours.”

 “I would say rather that she is simply less bound than others by convention,” Curufinwë said drily. “She is hardly the only one of our ladies who can hold her own.”

_Were that not the case,_ he thought,   _both my mother and Silmë would be here with me – nor were they the only wives who refused to yield to their husbands’ folly. Ask your law-brother Angarato about Eldalotë, if you dare._

“But what has happened that Galadriel desired my presence so urgently?” Celeborn asked, less concerned about Noldorin ladies in general than _his_ Noldorin lady in particular. “It is well enough to meet one of her kin, for until now I have known only her brothers and nephew, but I find it difficult to believe that could be such an important matter as her state of mind suggested.”

Curufinwë steeled himself.

If Celeborn reacted badly, better that it was _him_ the Sinda raged at than Artë.

“Has she told you that her sleep has been troubled in the extreme since she departed Doriath?” he began cautiously.

Celeborn frowned.

“No, she said nothing of it,” he replied slowly. “Though I fear she would keep such news from me, knowing that I would be upset, all the more so at being unable to help her.”

Curfinwë seized the opening.

“Indeed,” he said. “I feared she had concealed it from you, for I myself learned of it too late. Had I known sooner, I might have realized that we should have been more cautious, and not trusted that we were safe merely because we knew there to be no orcs about.”

He had succeeded in rousing Celeborn’s concern.

“What has happened?” he asked urgently, looking torn between worry and confusion.

He would have known if Artanis had been injured, and yet he understood from what Curufinwë had said that all was not well.

“Is it true what I have been told about the one your people call Gorthaur?” Curufinwë asked. “That he delights in tormenting you, often forgoing a swift kill if it means more suffering for his victim?”

He could see in the other ner’s carefully blank expression that it was.

“I do not think you yet know all the words I would need to accurately describe the cruelty of that foul creature,” Celeborn said darkly. “What _rhugar_ has he wrought this time?”

Curufinwë didn’t recognize the word, but took it to mean something along the lines of foulness.

With a deep breath, he plunged in, telling it all. Their foolishness with the wine, commiserating with each other about their absent spouses, and then falling asleep with no thought in their minds to keeping watch for their own safety. He left out that they had never needed such thoughts in Aman, for he was sure the other ner would add that part in himself.  (In his experience, the Sindar made no secret of their views on how well prepared the Noldor were for life in Beleriand, which ranged from disbelieving amusement to outright contempt.)

Celeborn frowned when he got to the dreams.

“But that was no trick,” he protested. “It was a shared dream!”

He reddened slightly, probably realizing as he spoke that by Noldorin sensibilities this was not a topic normally discussed with the male kinsman of one’s wife. Curufinwë had no idea how the Sindar viewed the subject, nor did he care to ask.

“Aye, it was,” Curufinwë agreed heavily. “Up to a point. You, I trust, would not have begotten a child without Art- without Galadriel’s knowledge of your intention – and her agreement?”

“Of course not!” Celeborn snapped, looking somewhat affronted. “The foundation of a good marriage is trust. How could she ever trust me again if I pushed her into something so important before she felt ready in herself to take that step?”

His outrage dimmed somewhat at the look on Curufinwë’s face, though his expression hardened.

“You seem surprised by my words. Do you truly think so little of us _dark elves_?”

“No,” Curufinwë said as soon as he was sure he had a voice to speak with. “My surprise is not for you wishing to wait for Artanis’ consent. It is for your words. I had expected you to say such a thing was impossible. That both would-be parents must _intend_ to beget a child.”

Celeborn laughed grimly.

“I assure you that no matter what pretty tales you tell in your land of light, parenthood does not require the consent of two. It can be achieved if one party desires it greatly enough and has no care for the wishes or opinions of the other. How else did you think orcs perpetuated themselves in the early days, and indeed even now, if an elleth is unlucky enough to fall into their power?”

Curufinwë devoutly did not wish to think on such matters, and was abruptly thankful that at least Artanis had understood at once that it was not her _husband’s_ will at work in her nightmare.

“What has happened?” Celeborn asked again, this time with far more worry in his voice. “Did an orc…”

He trailed off, looking as sick as Curufinwë felt at the suggestion he was dancing around.

“No,” he managed to tell Celeborn. “Not an orc. Sauron played us quite the trick. Artanis dreamed of you, I of my wife…”

He could see the realization in Celeborn’s eyes, but he made himself say the words anyway, if only because he needed to face it squarely.

“I dreamt I begot a child with my own wife, yet when I woke-”

“It had been Galadriel,” Celeborn whispered in horror. “She carries-”

“Yes,” Curufinwë admitted.

For a moment there was silence.

“As you said, it was not an orc,” Celeborn said, his voice sounding strained even to Curufinwë’s unfamiliar ears.

“I feel in some ways it is worse,” Curufinwë told him, unable to meet the other ner’s eyes any longer. “She is as a younger sister to me.”

“Even by Sauron’s usual standards, this is rather depraved,” Celeborn replied, sounding shaken.

“I ask no mercy for myself, but I hope you will spare Artë-”

“Spare her?” Celeborn’s voice cracked in shock. “What under the stars do you imagine I would do to her? To any woman with child? What sort of –” Curufinwë did not understand the word at all, for it was one he had not heard before and had no cognate in the tongue of the Noldor, “do you take me for? Or _us_ – I know what you call us, but do you really imagine my people so barbaric?”

“I did not know what to expect,” Curufinwë admitted. “I have only been imagining how furious I would be had another violated my Silmë.”

He was surprised to feel a hand under his chin. Celeborn tipped his head up, forcing Curufinwë to look him in the eye.

“And would you, no matter how angry you might fancy yourself at this imagined ellon, dream of taking it out on your beloved wife when she was clearly one wronged, not one in the wrong?” Celeborn asked quietly.

“Never,” Curufinwë replied at once.

“No more would I,” Celeborn said firmly. “And now that you have told me all, I would see Galadriel. If you have been imagining such a dire reaction on my part, I fear she may also be thinking in such terms. I suspect she will have fears enough without that worry on top of them.”

Curufinwë nodded.

“She is just there, in the tent,” he pointed. “I have been keeping watch.”

“And thought if I were to react badly, better that she not witness it,” Celeborn guessed.

He started toward the tent where Artanis slept, then turned to face Curufinwë again for a moment.

“I am sorry we meet under such circumstances, kinsman Curufin. I think had things been otherwise, we would have been friends.”

Curufinwë nodded, for the thought had occurred to him as well. But no matter what else might happen, this would always stand between them, and he did not delude himself that it was something Celeborn would ever be able to overlook.

“Go,” he said gruffly. “She’s been looking for you for days.”

\---

Artanis woke to someone kissing her forehead. She was all set to smack Curufin until she realized that it was emphatically _not_ her cousin.

She bolted upright, and into Celeborn’s arms.

_Beloved_.

She took a deep breath, ready to tell him all that had happened, but she felt him shaking his head.

“Your cousin has already told me all, my heart,” he told her, holding her tightly. “I know.”

She had never felt so vulnerable in all her life.

“It matters not, Galadriel.”

If Celeborn’s voice shook, his fëa was as strong and sure as the earth beneath them.

“You will have this child, and he will grow up knowing he is loved by his kin. That is all that matters.”

She burst into tears, letting all the worry of the last few weeks out in a matter of moments.

Celeborn soothed her as best he could, only too aware that she had not wanted to beget a child, and grimly certain that her fears would not have lessened after such a demonstration of Sauron’s power.

“Shh, beloved. I promised when we wed that your kin were mine as well, and your battles would not be fought alone. I will not go back on my word merely because the skies look grim. We will weather this storm.”

“How?” Galadriel demanded. “Anyone who can count-“

“None aside from ourselves and your cousin can know when exactly I reached you. The Iathrim will know when I set out, and when I passed the borders. But who can say how long the journey took from there? A handful of days either way is no great matter. Children are not always born precisely a year to the day after their begetting, and with such a strong willed mother, who would be surprised if the child also has a will of his own?”

He said it with such confidence that she began to relax.

“Your cousin will hardly give you away – indeed, he seems more concerned for you than for himself. Who will think it anything out of the ordinary if we all continue to your brother’s halls, and share the joyous news on our arrival?”

She looked at him, the last of the tears draining uncertainly from her eyes.

“I believe we can do this, beloved. It is a shock, but not a disaster.”

When he kissed her, he felt the tension and some – but not yet all or even most – of her fear melting away.

He could only hope that the presence of her brothers would ease much of the rest of it. It was beyond his power to give her the kin he could feel she wanted most – her mother, her grandmother, and her aunts – but he could at least see to it that she brought her child into the world surrounded by as much kin as could be gathered.


	13. Hiding The Truth

Curufinwë waited until evening before disturbing Artanis and her husband. Their marriage already faced more challenges in a year than most he knew ever had. He was not about to rush them when this was the first time they had spent together in two months or more.

He would happily have given them days, or longer still if he could. But there were matters they needed to discuss, and preferably before Celeborn got any foolish notions. He didn’t doubt the other ner wished to shield Artë, but he didn’t know what Celeborn’s idea of that might look like – and he feared any action not thought through carefully would make matters worse in the long run.

He approached the vicinity of the tent cautiously, as he had been wholly sincere when he told Artë he did not wish to think about her joining with anyone, husband or not – and he certainly had no wish to hear evidence of it if it were happening.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, he caught only the murmur of voices.

“Would the two of you care to take dinner with me?” he called, trusting that the answer would be ‘yes’.  

He did not know what the customs of the Sindar were, but the Noldor generally saw to it that an expectant mother’s food was prepared for her. What’s more, Celeborn, no matter what skills he might have at hunting or cooking, should keep close to his wife for the time being. Artë needed the reassurance, not to mention the support.

“Of course,” came the reply from Artanis. “Did you wish us to help?”

“No, I have the preparations well in hand,” he told her. “Half an hour.”

He hadn’t been idle.

He didn’t doubt that Celeborn was by far the superior archer – he’s seen what the Sindar can do with a bow, and archery here was more a vital skill than an occasional vanity as it had been in Aman – but one didn’t need much skill to bring down the slow, plump birds that abounded in the area around the pools. He’s bagged at least a brace every day for the past week. He’d selected two that had hung for several days and set them to roast earlier in the afternoon.

There were edible roots and wild grains enough about, provided one knew what to look for – and to be sure that animals known to have similar tolerances to elves were eating them with no ill effects. The early summer berries had been and gone already, while the late ones he recognized were only just coming in, but he’d found some nuts that would do for dessert instead.

He did hope that Celeborn had brought either ground grain or something that could be used for grinding with him, though – neither he nor Artanis had expected their journey to take more than a few weeks, and had not packed supplies for a longer expedition. What waybread was in their packs he had held in reserve against a true emergency, and the flour he had been using was running low. He doubted Artë would be pleased if she had to go without bread.

Well, they’d soon enough discuss what supplies Celeborn had brought with him.  There wasn’t much way around it. He intended to broach the subject of the future immediately after dinner, before the Sinda could set himself and Artë on any unnecessarily risky course.

The dinner he set out would not have drawn much praise in Tirion, or even in his uncle’s hall in Mithrim, but it made good use of what was at hand, and was nutritious enough that even a fretful father couldn’t fault it. (He was in a position to know.)

Artanis and Celeborn emerged from the tent hand in hand, and it pleased him to see her closer to happiness than she’d been the entire trip.

“Sit, eat,” he invited, waving a hand at the blankets he had set out to serve as seating. “There will be time enough for talk after.”

Artanis narrowed her eyes at him, clearly suspecting there would be plenty of talk, but pulled her husband down to sit with her.

“Still no fish?” she asked mischievously – and in Sindarin.

Curufinwë sighed, and not just because she’d made it clear what language they’d be speaking this evening.

He’d been avoiding that particular menu option, and with good reason. He knew perfectly well that Artanis could do far more with fish than he could, not to mention would probably prefer it done in the Telerin fashion. Curufinwë had never picked up much of that style of cookery – on the rare occasions he had ever needed something specifically Telerin, he had always applied either to his aunt or his law-sister for advice and followed their instructions to the letter.

“New mothers do _not_ cook,” he pointed out. “But you would probably like the results better if you did any fish yourself.”

Celeborn frowned, evidently not agreeing with at least part of his statement.

“We’ve had fowl in some form every day for the past week,” Artë sighed. “I appreciate that you have prepared it a different way each time, but there are so many pools and streams here it seems silly not to have fish for a change.”

“Fine, fish tomorrow,” Curufinwë sighed. “But you will have to instruct me on how to cook it.”

“Squirrel or rabbit is also an option,” Celeborn pointed out. “Though I do not see why you think Galadriel should not cook.”

Curufinwë glanced at his cousin, but she seemed uninclined to jump in.

“If she truly wishes to, of course she may,” he replied. “But it is our custom to prepare all meals for new mothers, even if they usually are the cook of their family. Enough of a mother’s strength is going to her child that it is only sense for the father to do what he can to lighten her load.”

Celeborn said nothing, apparently reflecting on what he had heard.

“As to why Artë would be better with fish than I am, she spent enough of her youth in Alqualondë that she knows dozens of ways to prepare fish, all of which I’m told are far superior to we inland Noldor and our ‘fry it into submission’ method.”

“It’s probably because those who live in Tirion don’t properly appreciate _fresh_ fish,” Artanis sniffed.

“Yes, we have to have them carted in, which means they’re not still flopping about by the time they reach the kitchen,” Curufinwë shot back.

Celeborn had looked at first as though he meant to intervene, but ended up suppressing a smile as it became clear that this was an old argument between the two cousins, with no malice on either side.

“You should have seen my mother’s face the time _his_ father tried to prove how superior Noldorin cuisine was in the matter of seafood,” Artanis told her husband mischievously.

Curufinwë groaned, because he remembered not only her mother’s face, but her father’s – as well as Uncle Arafinwë’s exasperation, suppressed until after the little ones had been taken off to bed. Artanis had not been old enough at the time to have been present for _that_ part.

The meal passed in similarly companionable banter, with Celeborn mostly listening, but occasionally contributing a well-chosen comment of his own – and bringing both his wife and her cousin to laughter more than once.

The more Curufinwë saw of him, the better he thought of Artanis’ chosen mate.

It made him all the angrier that they had allowed themselves to be such easy prey for Sauron. Artë’s first child should have been a source of unalloyed joy to the pair of them, and he should have been able to congratulate her and Celeborn and make something perfectly ridiculous for a child so young as a begetting gift. Jewel encrusted arrows, maybe.

When they had finished dinner, Artanis was the first to bring up the thought hanging over all of them.

“Have you given any thought to what we should do now?” she asked, making no pretense at delicacy.

Curufinwë nodded.

“It does not matter who the father that begot the child is,” Celeborn cut in. “I am happy to raise the child as my own, if you agree. No one outside of the three of us need ever know.”

“That would be the best thing, if it can be safely done,” Curufinwë replied cautiously. “I am glad to hear you say it matters not to you who begot the child. Unfortunately, I think it _would_ matter to others. How sure can we be that no one would know? What of your queen?”

Privately, he doubted that the Sindar’s maia queen was the greatest risk, for he was sure that Sauron would be only too pleased to see that their secret could not be kept. But if Melian would know the deception at once, and worse, if she told her proud husband, who already had reason to dislike Artë…

Celeborn frowned.

“In truth, I am not sure. But it is usual among our people for a child adopted at a young age to form bonds with its adoptive parents as it would have to the parents who begot it – would that not also hold true, if the child knew me as father from the moment he comes into the light?”

“My worry is less the child’s bond with you than the child’s safety and Artë’s, should King Thingol take it into his head that you have been deceived into raising a child not your own,” Curufinwë said carefully.

He didn’t want to offend Thingol’s kinsman, but he needed to be certain both his son and his cousin would not come to harm if he allowed them to proceed with this plan. Besides, there was still another potential stumbling block.

“There is something else I must ask,” he said slowly. “Celeborn, you are light haired as Artanis is. Are either of your parents dark haired? Or their parents?”

The look of consternation on Artanis’ face gave him the answer before Celeborn spoke, and his heart sank. It would have been such a _good_ solution if it could only have worked.

“No,” Celeborn replied, sounding puzzled. “Thingol’s kin are all silver haired, and my mother and her parents were as well. But why should that matter?”

Curufinwë closed his eyes. He had so hoped that there might have been even _one_ dark head among them…

He sighed. There was no simple way of putting it.

“Unfortunately, it matters a great deal. Artë and I are cousins through our grandfather Finwë,” he began. “Our grandfather is – was – dark-haired as I am. His first wife Miriel was silver haired, his second wife Indis golden haired. Miriel’s son, my father, was dark haired. Indis has three dark haired children, and only one golden-haired – Artë’s father.”

“You are saying the odds are against the child being light-haired,” Celeborn frowned. “What of it?”

“Artanis’ father married Eärwen of Alqualondë,” Curufinwë continued, his voice flat. “She is the niece of Thingol, and silver-haired as are both her parents. Artanis and all her brothers are light-haired. Our uncle married a lady of the Noldor, as dark-haired as he is. All their children are dark-haired. Our aunt Findis has not married – at least, she had not when we departed Tirion – but our aunt Irimë married a Vanya, who is golden-haired as all his people are. Their son is golden haired.”

“You mean to say that two dark haired parents will produce dark-haired children, and two light-haired parents will produce light-haired children,” Celeborn nodded. “But when one parent has dark hair and the other light, there is no certainty what the outcome will be.”

“Precisely,” Curufinwë said heavily. “If the child is born light-haired, there is no difficulty. It would be unlikely that any would question he was your son, aside from perhaps the Queen.”

“The child might still be light haired,” Celeborn pointed out. “You have mentioned two such children, your uncle and your cousin.”

“ _Might_ is not _probably_ ,” Curufinwë said heavily. “My father, as I said, is the dark-haired son of a silver-haired mother and a dark-haired father. My mother has reddish-brown hair, as her father does, though his is more red than brown. Her mother is silver-haired. Of my parents’ seven sons, three are red-haired, three are dark-haired. Only my brother Tyelkormo has silver hair. Further, my own wife has silver hair. Our son has my hair, not hers.”

Celeborn’s face fell as he absorbed the unfortunate fact that the odds seemed against light hair. That he did not pipe up at once with a counterexample was all the confirmation Curufinwë required that his logic was sound.

“All this is simple observation,” Curufinwë finished regretfully. “Given the circumstances, we cannot be sure that Sauron had not somehow tilted the odds to be against us.”

He wouldn’t be at all surprised were that the case – after all, what other ready way was there to cover the true circumstances of Artanis’ child than to pass the boy off as her husband’s?

“What is your plan, then?” Celeborn asked. “We cannot continue on to Nargothrond to await the birth as I had thought to do if there is a chance the child’s appearance will show plainly that he cannot be mine.”

“Indeed,” Curufinwë agreed heavily. “You cannot. Nor can you return to Menegroth, or go to our uncle’s halls in Mithrim. My own fortress is also out of the question, for that would surely occasion more remark than anything else, drawing the attention of any who heard of it.”

“You surely do not mean for us to remain here until the birth,” Artanis protested. “Alone! In the middle of nowhere!”

“That is precisely what I propose,” Curufinwë replied seriously. “Unless either of you have some better suggestion! This place is wholesome and should be safe, lying well behind the lines of defense our people are even now fortifying. With three of us, we should be able to contrive housing a bit more comfortable than a tent, and keep the larder well stocked.”

“Neither of you is a midwife,” Artanis said, her tone as frigid as the Ice.

“I have seen a child born,” Curufinwë reminded her.

“You didn’t do the birthing, Curufinwë” she hissed.

“I’ve attended more than one birth,” Celeborn replied bracingly. He met Curufinwë’s enquiring (and admittedly slightly desperate) glance head on. “I think we could manage. As your cousin says, there are three of us. And we have time enough to prepare for both winter and for the birth.”

Artanis was looking daggers at both of them.

“Artanis, I’m not proposing this out of embarrassment or pride,” Curufinwë told her crossly. “If you have another idea how to bring the child into the light without the world learning of how he came to be, I’m all ears!”

Her eyes said she was already plotting revenge, but the sour lemon expression of her mouth meant she didn’t have any better plan.

“And after the child is born?” she demanded. “How am I to explain suddenly showing up wherever you would have us go next with a son I inexplicably gave birth to in the wild? Without informing any of my kin of his begetting? It will be the talk of _both_ peoples!”

“You go to Nargothrond,” Curufinwë said quietly, knowing she’d like the next part even less. “When the child is weaned, or old enough to wean. Given your fury over Thingol’s treatment of you, and the smothering you were subjected to in Mithrim, who would question you roaming around the wild for a year or two until your temper cooled? The only surprise will be the child. You shall say it’s a foundling. No one will know the boy is yours.”

Except possibly Ingo, who might see through the ruse, but _he_ would hardly betray his beloved baby sister. And hopefully even if he guessed the full truth, he would cover for his idiot cousin for his sister’s sake.

That was a conversation Curufinwë devoutly hoped never to have. He was not entirely sure his lifelong friendship with Ingo would survive it. He has already lost Turvo’s goodwill for all time; he cannot contemplate losing Ingo as well.

“That would work,” Celeborn said slowly. “None would look for the father of a foundling to be anyone connected to you. And of course, as the boy’s milk mother, your bond with him would be easily explained.”

Both Curufinwë and Artanis looked at him in surprise.

Celeborn looked puzzled at their reaction.

“Do your people not know of milk mothers?” he asked curiously. “They are not common even among our people, but the concept is known to all.”

Artanis got the question out first.

“What is a ‘milk mother’?” she asked in bewilderment.

“No, I suppose you would not know, would you?” Celeborn sighed. “Mothers don’t die in your land of light.”

Artanis’ mental hiss was the equivalent of a stomp to the foot, preventing Curufinwë from disputing that point. At least _one_ mother had died in Aman – had she not, none of them would even be here!

“It sometimes happens that a mother is lost while her child is still too young to take solid food,” Celeborn explained. “Rather than let the child die for want of sustenance, another elleth will feed it. She is then the child’s milk mother, and in the absence of any other close kin, she will keep the child with her until it is grown. The younger the child is when this happens, the harder it is for anyone to distinguish the milk mother from the mother that gave birth, for it creates a bond just as strong.”

Curufinwë frowned.

“But would anyone believe that a nis who has never given birth could do this?” he asked. “Remember, the child is not to be known as hers.”

Celeborn chuckled.

“Fortunately, the One was wise enough to arrange matters so that any elleth might do this. I am told the process is not precisely comfortable for an elleth who does not already have milk to give, but if the will is there, the milk eventually flows.”

“I don’t suppose it is precisely comfortable for the hungry child either,” Artanis put in tartly.

“No, likely not,” Celeborn agreed. “It can take up to a day for the milk to come in. Hunger is not pleasant at any age.”

“I suspect it is even less so when one is too young to understand what is going on,” Curufinwë muttered.

But it could work.

He turned the plan over in his mind. Manwë’s balls, it could work even better than he’d expected if what Celeborn said were true. He heartily thanked the One for not only milk mothers, but also for the Nelyar and Tatyar having mingled so freely prior to the journey – unlike with the oh so holy Minyar, there were no traits unique to either group that could establish beyond doubt that the child was Noldo, and royal at that.

“We bring the child to Nargothrond,” he mused aloud. “We give Ingo some story about having found the boy, perhaps near signs of an orc ambush. He might have kin somewhere looking for him, but we know not what kindred he comes from, and should his kin be Noldor, they would not be able to look for him in Doriath. Artë of course can’t leave him until he’s old enough to wean in any case... By that time, she’s attached, reluctant to leave him to the care of another, and concerned about who will look after him should no kinfolk turn up. Ingo being Ingo will offer to take him – and then you can rest easy, knowing your son is in the hands of kin.”

He looked up to find Celeborn nodding.

“I may not know Finrod as well as you do,” he said, “but I also think he would foster the child to ease his sister’s heart if he knew she worried.”

Curufinwë hadn’t seen Artanis sulk so openly since she was in her twenties.

“I do _not_ want to leave my son with anyone else to raise! Much less birth him in the middle of _nowhere_ with only neri to assist!”

Celeborn murmured something in her ear, but judging by her mutinous expression it was nothing she particularly wanted to hear.

Artanis rose to her feet, glaring at both of them.

“I am going to rest, and when I return, you two _will_ have a better solution,” she announced, sounding every last inch Princess Artanis Arafinwiel of Tirion, before stalking off to her tent.

Celeborn exhaled with evident relief.

“That went better than I expected,” he said. “So, Curufin, what did you have in mind for housing?”


End file.
